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ROUND ABOUT HOME 



ROUND ABOUT 
HOME 



IRISH SCENES AND MEMORIES 



BY 



REV. P. J. CARROLL, C. S. C 




NOTRE DAME, INDIANA 
U. S. A. 






\^' 



Copyright 1914 
By D. E. Hudson, C. S. C. 



'-*. 'ik 



SEP I719M 



©CI.A379542 



TO THE READER 

''Round About Home'' is made up of scenes 
and memories: scenes from places I know; memories 
of people I love. The quiet country herein described, 
still remains — the flat land, the white road, the 
little town, the river, and the hilVs crest. The 
people who appear and speak for a brief period, 
are grown very old, or gone away. 

What is written, then, is written as a record of 
what was, and what, for me, will never be again: 
to-day's memories of a yesterday, back in Ireland, 
when the gray dew was on the clover and the cuckoo 
called from the blossomed alder. 

Maybe certain scenes and memories here set 
down will recall to you, also, your springtime in 
the Old Land, with dear, kindly people all around 
you, the wide, white Shannon a few fiat fields 
away, and the sea's sweet breath coming from Kerry 
Head. 

If so, then is there no need of further dedicating 
this book. Already it is dedicated to you. 



CONTENTS. 



The Ways of Father Tracey i 

The Blind Man of Athery ii 

The Pathern Day 19 

The Vision of the Golden Cross 28 

The Bridge o' the Ghosts 36 

Without House or Home 47 

Micky the Fenian 56 

Brother and Sister 67 

The Hill o' Dreams 78 

Brother and Sister 67 

The Hill o' Dreams 78 

The Triumph 89 

The Bellman of Ardee 103 

Around the Fire 112 

Moll Magee 122 

God Rest Him, Paddy Owen! .......... 132 

Wicked Dana wee 141 

John Kennedy's Resolve - . . . 149 

The Sad Sunday 160 

How the Curse was Lifted 169 

The True Love of Maggie May 177 

The Falling of Night 191 

Mad Matt 200 

The Last Day of School 208 

The Athery Meeting 218 

The After Years 226 



THE WAYS OF FATHER TRACEY 

FATHER TRACEY had many and many an 
offer of a larger and better parish than the 
out-of-the-world little village of Knockfeen. But 
he stayed with the simple people he knew and 
loved, and could never be induced to "go up 
higher." Every Sunday, at the last Mass, he 
preached a plain sermon, in which he illustrated 
his theme from the farm and the crops and the 
weather, like his Divine Master before him. He 
was brief or long as he had a mind; but, brief 
or long, he received the same measured attention. 
He never scolded or berated; for age had but 
mellowed and sweetened this man of God, crowned 
with the silver of seventy years. iVnd it was 
better so; for he saved more stray sheep by love 
and gentleness and pity than he could ever have 
done by the white light of holy wrath. 

On Saturday afternoon, from two to six, he 
heard confessions in an old confessional that was 
hidden av/ay under the stairs leading to the 
gallery. When he gave a word of counsel or 
consolation, he spoke so low the people said 'the 
ould boy himself couldn't hear, and so couldn't 
make plans to spoil the good work of his reverence.' 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

But when he said, Ego te absolve, he spoke with 
such unction and authority as if he were chasing 
money-changers out of the Temple. If there 
were periods of lull — and usually there were, for 
the parish was small — he walked out on the 
grassplot of the "chapel yard" and said his Beads 
or his Breviary, or stood above the grave of a 
former Knockfeen parish priest who was laid to 
rest many long years before. It was the only 
priest's grave to which the "yard" could lay 
claim. 

Father Tracey loved his people, and you may 
be sure his people loved him. Of a week morning 
after Mass, he took a walk down the village 
street, and passed a friendly word here and there 
as he moved leisurely along. 

"Well, Maureen, how is your mother this 
morning ? " _ 

"Oh, she's much better this morning, Father, 
thank you!" 

"I'm glad to hear that, Maureen. You might 
tell her I'll drop in to-morrow or maybe 
Wednesday." 

Then he passed on till he met a young man 
from the country leading a spirited horse to the 
forge. 

"Good-day, Mike! That's a fine colt." 

"He is, Father; though he do be a bit wild 
and foolish sometimes." 

"You don't tell me! And where did you get 
him, Mike?" 

"I bought him from Tade Clancy." 

[2] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"Tade of the hill?" 

"Yes, Father." 

Then Father Tracey would stroke the arched 
neck, and the tossing head would turn; and 
two large e3^es would survey the priest with 
friendly curiosity. 

"He's a great animal, Mike. I suppose he 
cost you a bit?" 

"Faix, then, he did. Father! He cost me 
seventeen pound ten, a week ago ere yesterday." 

"That's big money, Mike. I hope God will 
make him prosper for you." 

Then he might meet a "girleen" on her way 
to school, and he v/ould stop and ask where her 
brother was yesterday. Maybe her brother was 
sick, or maybe he had to help in the garden, or 
perhaps he had to go to the fair. Then Father 
Tracey would grow very serious. 

"Girleen, listen to me! We'll never be any- 
thing in these parts without education. Once 
upon a time we didn't get the chance, but 'tis 
different now. Tell your father to let Tommy 
come to school; for Tommy is a good, bright 
boy and may be something yet." 

The "girleen" promised and passed noiselessly 
away. 

If it were a summer morning, this shepherd of 
his people, their light and their guide, might 
leave the village scenes behind him to visit some 
sick or forlorn member of his flock in the country. 
On either side of the road, as he wended his way, 
he saw potato fields glorious in their white blos- 

[3] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

soms, and men with the bone and sinew of Kinn 
Mac Coul's Fenians giving the furrows a last 
touch of the spade. Or maybe he stopped to 
watch the wide acres of clover, where the corn- 
crakes lay a-hiding, and the smell of the growing 
meadows was sweeter to his sense than the 
perfumes of the desert. Or he might let his eyes 
wander to the whitewashed house of a farmer, 
crowned with a new roof of golden thatch. Or 
he might see men busy following their teams in 
hayfield or garden, and milch cows drowsing in 
the shade. Or afar he might hear the river, like 
a pulse, beating in its ceaseless course, and 
quickening with life the face of the land. 

He lived with his people; their hopes were 
his hopes, their failures his failures. If the yellow 
wheat promised only half a harvest, they told 
him; and he gave, of his large pity, gentle words 
of encouragement and hope. If a horse or a 
cow "went against" them, into his heart they 
poured the story. Especially if death came and 
took some one from accustomed ways to "ways 
unknown," he gave the mourners a message of 
sympathy a.nd hope. 

Often, too, in those daily walks he would linger 
around a great old castle — the memory of a 
bygone glory — that sent a long shadow of a waning 
day far across the growing fields. There it stood, 
with its narrow portholes, and crumbling stone 
stairway, and dark, echo-making rooms, where 
the owl and the bat hovered like spirits of evil. 
The ivy clung fast about it, and knit itself to 

[4] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

every stone that else might have fallen. And he 
had his dream there in the shadow of Ireland's 
crumbling grandeur, just as any one else would 
who knew her story. He was a patriot, this 
gentle priest. And who has a greater right to be 
patriotic than the Irish priesthood? Has it not 
proved the Spartan band that guarded Ther- 
mopylae against the crowding hosts? 

One summer afternoon in late July Father 
Tracey hovered about this old castle on his way 
home from a customary visit in the country. He 
had not been long there when he noticed a man 
running across the field toward him. Scarcely 
had he reached the priest when he cried: "Glory 
be to the great God! There's a man killed, Father! 
Come quick!" 

The priest followed at once. They reached the 
highroad leading to the village and walked about 
two hundred yards. Then on the edge of a grove 
of trees he saw a number of persons surrounding 
a dead body. Because of its strangeness and its 
sadness, the story of the accident obtains in the 
traditions of Southern Ireland. 

Jim O'Brien had bought a couple of trees from 
the owner of the grove, and needed the help of 
a man and a horse to cut down and take home 
the timber. Widow Madigan and her son Dan — an 
onty child, born twenty-four years before, shortly 
after her husband's death — were Jim's neighbors. 
They were "neighbors" not b}^ location only, 
but by spirit also, and Jim found little difficulty 
in securing the assistance of man and horse. 

[5] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Dan Madigan was a typical young Irishman. 
He had eyes as blue as the sky of his motherland, 
and a head of hair as black as the wing of a night 
raven. Though he was a strong man, he spoke 
softly, and his ways were as gentle as a girl's. 
He never once made trouble for his fellowmen, 
and his fellowmen never made trouble for him. 
So his days were spent keeping his farm of forty 
acres, which were among the finest in the 
county. 

It was no secret, either, that Kathleen O'Donnell, 
the best girl in all Munster, was to be his own 
forever the coming Shrove. Father Tracey himself 
had helped to make the match, — and a good 
matchmaker he was, too. There was no bargain- 
ing, or "splitting the difference." They met, 
they liked, they loved — and that was the end 
of it. Nov/, if Dan loved Kathleen with the deep 
love of a good heart, Kathleen in her turn thought 
Dan the strongest and bravest and fleetest and 
truest and gentlest boy from Cork to Dublin. 
So they had their dreams and their plans and their 
talks; and they built their golden castles on the 
crests of Irish hills, around which daisied fields 
stretched wide and far. And Dan's mother, who 
never had much to say — she was the reserved 
kind of mother whose love does not effervesce 
in speech, — held this girl to her heart as a 
daughter who would soften her age with her 
gentle ways. So everybody — from Father Trarey, 
who would bless their wedlock even as he had 
baptized them, and given them their first Holy 

[ 6 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Communion, and handed them "sacks of sweets" 
for prizes at school, down to the most critical 
member of the little parish — considered Dan 
Madigan and Kathleen O'Donnell the bravest 
boy and the finest girl one would meet in a hundred 
miles of a highroad. 

When Dan drove down the white road that 
July day there wasn't a care in his heart. He 
had a word of salute for everybody. Jim O'Brien 
remarked as they drove along: 

"Dan, 'tis great w^eather entirely." 
"'Great' is the word, Jim. I don't believe I 
ever saw finer crops." 

" Yerra that's right! They're the best in years." 
When they reached the little grove, Dan tied 
the horse, with sufficient leeway to pluck big 
bunches of luscious grass. Jim mounted one of 
the trees — a giant with great, outreaching arms. 
He sawed and sawed on one of the heaviest limbs, 
then stopped a bit and handed a word down to 
Dan: 

"Dan, he's a tough fellow, so he is!" 
"He is that, Jim! Let me up at him." 
"No: you come up for the other fellow. He's 
worse yet." 

Then Jim began anew and went on with a will. 
The story is too full of painful memories to linger 
over it for paltry dramatic effect. Dan Madigan 
walked directly under the swaying limb to find 
out how the work was advancing. There was a 
crash, and in a second his body was crushed 
beneath the monster limb. 

[7] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Men hurried to the spot and removed the 
mangled form. And there they were, a silent 
circle, when Father Tracey arrived. Of course 
he gave conditional absolution and said the 
usual prayers. Then the heart of the gentle priest 
felt a great pang. When he spoke there was 
something like bitterness in his words: 

"Those are the dear trees to all of us. They 
have put out the life of the finest boy in 
Ireland." 

Then he noticed Jim, the picture of misfortune, 
hanging on the edge of the group. His heart melted 
now and he felt a gentle pity. 

"Jim, I'm not blaming you. And God doesn't 
blame you. But he that's gone was the friend 
of all of you." 

And those strong men, rugged from sun and 
soil, wept, and muttered with deference, "Indeed 
he was!" and "God knows he was!" and "God 
be merciful to him!" 

One can not tell the great sorrow of the mother 
at home when Father Tracey broke the terrible 
news. Like every crushing sorrow, it found no 
outlet. She looked at the son of her heart, the 
child that lighted her widowhood of twenty-four 
years, as he was borne through her door. But 
no tears relieved the terrible burning heart within 
her. Then there followed the long watching when 
she sat by the body and looked at the still face, 
not caring to eat, not wishing to give up her 
vigil. At her side, brave in her woe, was the girl 
that in a sense was a widow too. Father Tracey 

[8] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

tried his gentlest arts to get the tears of rehef 
to flow, but the tears did not come. The day of 
the funeral arrived, and then God showed pity. 
When the body was about to be placed away in 
the yellow coffin, the mother stopped the bearers 
and leaned her face down to the cold face of her 
son. 

"Dan, my Dan, child of my heart! And are 
you going to leave me! Sure you are the light 
of my eyes and the pulse of my blood, and I 
can't live without you! vStay, son of mine; or 
if you don't, may God take me to you soon!" 

Then the spring of mother-love burst forth 
in floods of tears, and the tears brought relief. 

Knockpatrick is a graveyard on the crest of 
a hill, and serves as the last resting-place of all 
the people of Knockfeen parish. Narrow and 
winding is the road that leads up to it, and you 
can see its weather-worn tombs many and many 
a mile away. Three narrow graves lie side by side 
in one corner, where two ivy-covered walls meet. 
One "headstone" keeps watch above them, and 
chiselled into it are these words : ' ' To the memory 
of John Madigan, his beloved wife Mary, and 
their son Daniel." 

There is a nun in the convent of the Good 
Shepherd at Limerick, and her face is sweet and 
her voice is gentle. She goes about each daily 
task with quiet cheerfulness, and every beggar 
calls her the "angel Sister." She felt a great 
grief once, but the weight of that is lifted by love 
and holy peace; yet at every Mass she hears 

[9] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

she prays for the eternal rest of one soul called 
suddenly away. 

There are two priests' graves in Knockfeen 
chapel yard now. One died many a long year 
ago. The other is Father Tracey, vv^ho, at the 
venerable age of eighty years, gave a parting 
blessing to the people of his heart, and went 
home to God. Many a mother brings her child 
to the green plot of grass of a mellow summer 
day, and in the silence of the place tells to eager 
ears the story of Father Tracey and his gentle 
ways. 



[lo] 



THE BLIND MAN OF ATHERY. 

ABROAD white road runs from Ardee to 
Athery. Through both little towns flows 
the River Deel; and where it divides Athery in 
two, it is broad and deep; but farther south, 
where it semicircles Ardee, it is so narrow you 
could almost jump across, and so shallow you can 
see the yellow sand and pebbles at the bottom. 
Athery used to be a thriving town, as towns go in 
Ireland. Into its small harbor, boats filled with 
turf and "cots" heavy with seaweed glided with 
the tide in the gray of the morning. Round about 
it lived many rich farmers, who sent butter to 
its markets and cattle and sheep to its fairs. 
Thither went the women to do their shopping of 
a Saturday, and the men with their grain to be 
ground at the mill. 

The broad white road was beaten into hardness 
by constant travel. The well-shod horse made 
it hard, as he swayed, patiently pulling his heavy 
load of peat ; so did the winking donkey, burdened 
with his "loadeen" of seaweed that had the 
pungent odor of the ocean. In the early morning 
bunches of well-fed cattle, that bellowed for their 
native hills, passed over it on their last sad 

[ii] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

journey, to be sold to fatten the Saxon; so did 
flocks of sheep and lambs; so did the milk cars, 
driven to the creamery by whistling dairy boys; 
so did shy coleens, with donkey and trap going 
to the "millinery" to buy new hats or dresses; 
so did beggars, with small bags of potatoes and 
odds and ends of all kinds gathered in a foray 
of charity through the sweet air of the country; 
so did tinkers, with their procession of lean ponies 
of a like repute to their masters; so did huxters 
of many wares; so did the postboy, with his 
head up in the air, although he was a servant of 
the government; so, sometimes, did fat, lazy 
"peelers" in a side-car, to look over the farm of 
an evicted tenant, and to guard the "emergency 
man" — for want of something better to do; so 
did the travelling Jew with a package of linen 
done up in oilcloth; so did the school-children 
from the country, with their books held in a 
strap — when they had enough of them; so, too, 
in the endless procession, did the Blind Man of 
Athery and his dog. 

Everybody knew the blind man, but not a 
soul in the whole town or country knew of him. 
Whence he came, when, why, — these were secrets 
of the Great Book. He was in town before the 
oldest inhabitant, and never seemed to have been 
younger or to have grown older. He was always 
blind, so far as anybody knew; and was led about 
by the same dog, that shared the mystery of his 
master. He was not a handsome dog, either; 
not such a dog as you would stop to look at, 

[12] 



ROU^'D ABOUT HOME 

nor to waste a kind word on ; certainly not a 
dog to entice you to descend to the familiarity 
of an encouraging pat on the head. He was 
scrawny and small and old-fashioned. He never 
played like other dogs. He never acted like other 
dogs. He did not pant in the heat, nor did he 
bark at the footfall of a stranger. His eyes were 
watery, and blinked so he never could look you 
in the face. The fact is, he would never look 
anyhow; for he was always too busy with his 
own cares to bother about others. He went 
before his master, who held him by a brass chain, 
attached to his collar. The chain was always on 
the verge of being taut, and stayed there. The 
master walked at a fair pace, and the dog trotted 
the leisurely trot of a dog who has no special 
reason to hurry. 

Everyday we school-children met them at the 
same place, at the same time, on the same errand. 
The place was Stoake's Cross, — so called because 
years before some one of that name had been 
killed there; thus does tradition obtain in Ireland. 
The time was half-past eight in the morning; 
the errand, to get a bundle of scollops from a 
wood of hazel saplings that grew about a mile 
out in the country. These scollops were sold by 
the blind man to people whose thatched roofs 
needed renewal or repair. Always he carried a 
large rosary of brown beads with a large yellow 
crucifix ; and always he was murmuring * ' Hail 
Marys" as the little stones passed between his 
thumb and forefinger in endless procession. Always 

[13] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

he said, "God save you, children!" as he heard 
our footfalls nearing him, and always we answered : 
"And you kindly, sir!" He never paused, but 
vanished around the bend of the road like a 
spirit from the other world. 

If people knew nothing of the blind man's 
history, you may be sure they made up by con- 
jecture and gossip and hearsay what they lacked 
in the way of positive information. Sure it was 
known he had been a great sinner once upon a 
time, and had travelled to the end of the world 
to find a spot where he could do penance; and 
Athery was the place, with its crumbling castle 
of the fighting Desmonds, and its ivy-clad abbey 
that looked down upon the placid river, — the 
abbey where the monks prayed in the bygone 
ages, when Ireland was still uncrowned by a 
great crown of sorrows. Some said he had com- 
mitted murder and was haunted day and night 
by the ghost of the man he killed. Others said 
he had been cursed by a priest because he had 
answered him back when the priest was speaking 
from the holy altar. 

He was a strange man, too, in his way, like his 
dog that went before him. He never talked with 
the neighbors about the weather or the conditions 
of the crops. He lived his life alone, never visiting 
a body of an evening, and never asking a body 
to visit him. He went to Mass every morning 
and knelt in a quiet corner behind a pillar, holding 
the big brown beads with the yellow crucifix. 
He went to confession every Saturday at three 

[14] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

o'clock; and, as he knelt in his corner after he 
had told his sins to the keeper of the seal, often 
and often his blind eyes were wet from weeping. 
There were those who said he was a miser and 
had money hoarded away somewhere ; but nobody 
ever tried to make sure, for good luck never yet 
followed those who pried into the secrets of the 
blind man. "Let him alone," was the warning of 
the old to the young. "He is a strange man 
entirely, and 'tis an evil day for them that'll 
meddle with him or his affairs." 

So the tradition was handed down from the 
ancients, and the blind man of mystery was 
allowed to go his way without let or hindrance. 
There was a story indeed that once a boy inter- 
fered with the dog, and the dog bit him, and the 
boy died howling within an hour, though the best 
doctor for miles around did all in his power to 
save him. There were stories of others who came 
to evil from interfering with the poor sightless 
man. But they were past and gone, if they ever 
lived; and the town showed kindness and con- 
sideration to the man whose story was as a sealed 
book. 

One morning in mid-April, we were making our 
regular journey to school. It was the season of 
what is called the "spring showers." Strange, 
melancholy, fascinating, showery Irish weather! 
A patch of black cloud soils the blue of the west 
and spreads like a cancer over the face of the 
sky. A low moan of the wind that rises to a 
dismal roar and tosses every leafing tree and 

[15] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

shrub. Then a rain that is blown across the 
country over broad fields, up hills and down 
valleys for twenty minutes or half an hour. It 
is all over soon — cloud, wind, rain — and a blue 
sky and a warm sun look down upon the emerald 
of Ireland. Thus the cloud and the light come 
and go for weeks at a stretch, reminding one in 
figure of the character of the race. 

It was one such morning in the period of sun 
that we hurried on our way to the school that 
stood on the crest of a little hill overlooking 
the river. Some of us were talking, some were 
silent, and a few took a last look at a difficult 
lesson. We turned the bend in the road, and 
that which had never been recorded in the memory 
of living man was to be recorded then. The 
Blind Man of Athery and the dog that guided 
him were nowhere to be seen! By a strange 
coincidence, the long stretch of straight, white 
road ahead of us was vacant and silent. A mys- 
terious fear took possession of us all, and we grew 
silent too. We felt that somewhere near us his 
spirit hovered, and that the man of mystery 
had made himself invisible and was passing by 
on his daily journey. 

We hurried to the town, where passed 
from tongue to tongue the news that the blind 
man was dead. That morning at seven o'clock 
the postman brought him the only letter ever 
known to have come to him ; and when he entered 
his cottage, found him lying dead in bed, with 
his beads twined about his fingers. The dog 

[i6l 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

that had been his light and guide for so long sat 
watching and waiting a few feet away. The 
postman placed the letter on the bed and ran 
out to tell the neighbors. In a short time a silent, 
sympathetic, and perhaps a curious group was 
in the room. After the first flush of excitement 
was over, the postman thought of the letter, 
which he would take to the priest, who might 
decide to read it, and perhaps solve the mystery. 
But the letter was gone! They searched and 
searched, but it was never found, and it is a long 
time now since people have given up the hope 
that it ever will be found. 

Two days later it was a large gathering that 
saw the blind man laid away in a little corner 
of the abbey. It was a dark afternoon outside, 
and darker still within the ruins. The wind 
shook the new spring leaves, and moaned dis- 
mally through crumbling windows and vacant 
doors. The priest said the prayers, and the 
people answered. The earth was heaved upon 
the yellow coffin; and when the work was done, 
at the head of the mound was placed a little black 
iron cross with this inscription: "The Blind 
Man of Athery is buried here." 

The dog followed his master's funeral, and never 
after left the abbey. Because of the strangeness 
and sadness and mystery of it all, people sent him 
food, which the mute animal scarcely touched, 
though you may be sure the crows devoured it 
without ceremony. He did not need people's 
attention for long. Just three weeks after his 

[17I 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

master's buqal, he was found dead near the 
grave, upon which the long grass is growing now, 
and on which is renewed every three or four 
years the simple words that tell all that is known 
and all that will ever be known of the Blind Man 
of Athery. 



[i8] 



THE PATHERN DAY. 

THE twenty-fifth of July was always called 
"Pathern Day" in the parish of Knockfeen. 
It took some years to arrive at the truth that 
"pathern" was a corruption of "patron," and 
that the day was kept holy in honor of St. James 
the Greater, to whom the parish chapel was 
dedicated. 

A small mile out from the village was St. 
James' Well, to which from dawn to sundown 
people went in unbroken procession to make 
the "rounds." Over it was built a covering of 
mortar and stone, that in shape looked not unlike 
a beehive; while around it a path was worn 
from the unending procession during the long 
July day. People counted the rounds on their 
beads, or sometimes on little stones, one of which 
they dropped to the grass after each round. 
Everybody drank some of the clear, cold water, 
and gave an alms to the beggar woman who 
reached down for the welcome glassful. As a 
rule, people made the rounds at St. James' Well 
only on the feast of the saint; though, of course, 
there are numerous wells in Ireland where rounds 
are made every day of the year. It must be 

[19] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

said, too, that nobody spent the whole day at 
this form of devotion. Indeed, it would be difficult 
for the same person to keep marching in the pro- 
cession all day long. 

About four hundred yards down from the rise 
of ground, out of which sometime in the dim past 
the cooling waters leaped, was a sloping lawn 
like that mentioned in Goldsmith's "Deserted 
Village." There one could see the vision of five 
or six booths or stands — "tents" they used to be 
called, — presided over by professional "huxters," 
who made it a business to be present at all fairs, 
races, "patherns," and other gatherings of a like 
character. The stands had two departments — 
the religious and the worldly. The religious portion 
contained beads, scapulars, prayer-books, statues, 
medals, and crucifixes; the worldly contained 
"sweets," cakes, lemonade, fruit of all kinds, 
especially plums and gooseberries. Old people 
came and chose the things of the spirit; children 
came and chose the things of the world. When 
the day was waning the old people walked leisurely 
home, wondering how many more years would 
be given them "to make the rounds." But the 
children stayed with their elder brothers and 
sisters, still feeding on the things of the world, 
for which they were to suffer later on. 

Beyond these tents was the "Maggie man," 
who conducted a tournament of skill in wattle 
throwing. The sport consisted of two well-padded 
sticks driven into the ground, on which were 
placed two wooden targets resembling bottles. 

[ 20] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Every young man desiring to take a turn was 
given three throws at either of the targets for a 
penny. For every one knocked down, three more 
throws were granted, so that a man with a good 
aim might keep on throwing all day. The "Maggie 
man" had four specific duties: to collect and 
bring back the sticks after they had been thrown; 
to replace the targets; to call out continuously, 
"Three throws for a penny!" and to keep beyond 
reach of the flying missiles. It was a simple sport 
enough, no doubt; but the grown men and the 
growing boys of Knockfeen found it most 
enjoyable. 

After all, amusement is relative. Simple people 
have simple joys. The boy with a kite is probably 
happier than the millionaire with a yacht. He 
has the same sky above him, and his young 
eyes can watch the rift for a stretch of blue; 
he has youth, and hope; he is on the east side 
of life, with all the promise of the west before 
him. The man of money has comfort and ease 
and the material good things of earth. But 
earth's treasures gather rust with time, and earth's 
joys are always on the borderland of sorrow. 

Late one Pathern afternoon Father Tracey 
walked out from the village to share by obser- 
vation in the pleasures of his simple people. 

"Himself is comin'!" an old lady, who still 
lingered, whispered to a neighbor. 

"Wisha glory be to God, an' he never misses! 
An' faix 'tis aisly plased he is, comin' out here 
to the likes of us." 

[21] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"Whist, woman! Hasn't he been comin' here 
for thirty years, and won't he come till he die?" 

"He will, — of course he will. And may the 
Blessed Mother herself keep him comin' a good 
while yet ! ' ' 

Meantime one of the children, having seen the 
familiar figure walking down the road, gave the 
welcome word. It is not any picture of fancy to 
say that every child in the place rushed with a 
leaping heart to meet the sweet, kindly priest. 
They clapped their hands, fluttered around him 
like birds, and laughed in hysterical joy. One 
knows not how, but this man of silvered hair 
had the heart of every child in the hollow of 
his hand. When he appeared, father, mother, 
brother, sister, everybody on the whole round 
earth was set aside; when he left, a cloud settled 
on their young faces. 

He set them racing for pennies till his coppers 
were all gone. Then Maureen sang ' * Ninety- 
Eight" for him; and the fire of her race leaped 
out of her eyes, and the red blood of her heart 
rushed to her face in defiance as the words brought 
meaning to her young mind. There was a lad 
he called "Laughing Fox," because he could 
never look at you without breaking into a smile, 
and because his hair was as red as the fur of a 
fox. Father Tracey had him speak a little piece 
about 'Jacky the Lanthern' and his wild pranks, 
which an old man in the parish had taught him. 
There were two lines which never failed to make 
Father Tracey laugh and clap his hands and 

[22] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

say, "Bravo, bravo, 'Laughing Fox'!" The lines 
ran: 

For Jacky could make the divil go wrong, 
But the divil went wrong before him. 

There was a little girl he called "Erin." She 
had long, black hair that always flew back in 
the wind; and her face was strangely serious, 
and her eyes full of expression. One day when 
he visited the school he asked her to read for 
him. The selection began, "Erin, the light will 
shine out of thine eyes"; and ever after he called 
her "Erin." When the children had sung and 
spoken and run themselves tired, he watched 
the men for a little, chatting here and there, and 
commenting on the good or ill luck of the stick- 
throwers. 

Donald O'Neill, one of the finest hurlers in 
County Limerick, stepped up for a turn. The 
"Maggie man" put him off and told him to wait 
a bit; for he knew, as everybody else knew, that 
Donald could, without effort, knock down four 
bottles out of every six throws. 

"Let Donald take a turn," Father Tracey said, 
as he heard the old man warding him off. 

"Sure, your reverence, he's too good* entirely, 
and 'tis tired he makes me gathering up the 
sticks for him. A man must make a living, your 
reverence. And Donald O'Neill might keep 
throwing from now till Christmas for a pinny." 

"Yes, Donald is a great boy," Father Tracey 
added reflectively. "Sure, I baptized him and 
his father and mother before him, and I ought 

[ 23 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

to know. Come over here to me, Donald.** 

Then Father Tracey placed his fatherly hand 
on the young head, crowned with a growth of 
fair, soft hair; and he looked with the pride of 
spiritual fatherhood into the eyes that were 
gentle and full of light. Father Tracey had an 
ever-widening love for all his people, young and 
old. But because Donald served his Mass for 
eleven years, and rang the chapel bell, and took 
care of his horse when he had one, and hovered 
about him morning, noon and night, for this lad 
the priest had the most tender affection. Donald 
was handsome like his father and mother before 
him. Many a girl would be glad to say "Yes" 
if he asked her, but 'twas known he was taking 
Latin lessons with Father Tracey and might be 
a priest; so they put the thought of him out of 
their young heads. 

The priest and Donald left the "Maggie man" 
to "make a living," as he put it, and stood on a 
rise of ground near the edge of the crowd. 

"Well, Donald my lad, are you still thinking 
it over?" 

"Indeed I am. Father, day and night. I know 
how my mother has her heart set on my staying 
here at home. My father won't like it either. 
But always the voice is calling me to foreign 
parts. I have prayed and prayed, and the voice 
keeps calling, calling, — something like the voice 
of the Irish calling St. Patrick long ago. I'm 
thinking to still the voice and ease my heart by 
joining the Franciscans for the foreign missions.'* 

[24] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"Donald my lad, I'm forty-seven years a 

priest, and never yet have I stilled the voice 

in the heart of any one; and I never will, God 

helping me with His holy grace. I was thinking, 

since your father is well-to-do, you might go tQ 

Maynooth and join the priesthood of your own 

country. But who am I that I should lay plans 

for a boy when the voice of the great God is 

calling him?" Then Father Tracey's eyes filled 

with tears: "Donald, Donald, you are a good 

lad, and your young face shows it, and so does 

the light of your eyes. You have lingered around 

your poor old priest when his thoughts and his 

ways were so different from yours. You have 

cheered him when his heart was heavy with 

sorrow; you have helped him when age had 

fettered his feet. And I love you, Donald, as only 

a father could. And God loves you, Donald. 

Therefore follow Him, even if your father and 

mother gainsay you; for we must leave father 

and mother and follow Him. Yes, although I'll 

miss you many and many a day, and will hear 

no more the voice that sings in you, still go, 

Donald, when you are ready; and my blessing 

and the blessing of God go with you." 

Father Tracey left the "Pathern" shortly after, 
thoughtful and silent. The sun was far down 
in the west, and already a few scattered stars 
shone feebly in the sky. The scent of hayfields 
came to him from either side of the road; and, 
above, the crows, with extended necks and wings 
now flapping, now motionless, were journeying 

[25] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

homeward. He caught not the scent of the hay- 
fields, but looked up and saw the black carrion 
birds sailing along to protecting forests in the 
falling night. 

"They are going home, — they are going home," 
he mused. "Everybody goes home when the night 
comes. The cows, the sheep, the birds, — they 
all go home. Man goes home, too; for the day 
is given to labor, the night to rest. I am going 
home myself, to pause a little; for the darkness 
is falling. Soon the long night will come, when 
the long day will be over; and then, too, I'll 
go home, — God grant I'll go home!" 

Back at the "Pathern" the crowd is getting 
thinner, the voices are fewer, the laughter is fast 
dying away. You can see people walking along 
the road in different directions, and their words 
come like echoes; you can see them crossing 
the fields and climbing over fences, and already 
their forms are vanishing in twilight. The well 
is deserted, the beggar woman has counted her 
pennies and has gone away to her little cabin 
in the village. The "Maggie man" has collected 
his wattles and has placed them away securely 
in his donkey cart; he has pulled up his padded 
sticks and has placed them away with his wattles. 
Over all he has spread his canvas and has made 
it fast. Now he hitches his donkey to the cart; 
now he, too, is fading into the twilight. The huxters 
at their booths are placing away their unsold 
holy objects and the meagre remains of their 
fruits and candies. They, too, pull down the 

f26] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

canvas and make it fast over their wares; they, 
too, harness their donkeys, hitch them to the 
carts, pull out from the grounds, and fade into 
the twilight. 

Not a soul lingers now. They are all gone. 
A law, a tradition brought them ; a law, a tradition 
took them away. There was a new day, a joy 
in their coming; there is falling night and a 
strange pain that grips at the heart in their going. 
How silent the field! How silent the well! The 
grass will grow green again through the course 
of a long year where the huxters sold their wares, 
where the men threw the sticks in answer to the 
call of the "Maggie man," where the children 
played at their simple games. It will grow green 
also in the path around the well, now worn into 
hardness bj^ the procession of many feet. 



[27] 



THK VISION OF THE GOLDEN CROSS. 

'ARY CONNELLY was pronounced a "clever" 
girl by all Knockfeen and far beyond it. 
She received a convent education, and went to 
Dublin for what they call the "finishing touches." 
Already at twenty she was head teacher, with 
three assistants, in one of the city national schools. 
On Saturdays she took the evening train home 
and always spent Sunday with her mother. 

She was the light and the joy of the whole 
parish, and many a poor woman with a boy or 
a girl in America wondered what in the world 
would become of Knockfeen if the good God had 
not sent Mary Connelly. It must be said of Mary 
that her light v/as never given a chance to burn 
under a bushel. During each week of her absence 
in the city, there were always three or four letters 
from "beyond the seas." These she had to answer 
for some of the dear old mothers at home, whom 
an enlightened Government had kept in ignorance. 

Mrs. Clancy, for instance, had a letter from 
her son Tom, who was in New York. Mary had 
first of all to read it, had to pause betimes for 
Mrs. Clancy's running comment and ejaculation, 
and finally to hear a motherly eulogy on Tom. 
It was ail veiy beautiful, no doubt; but many 

[28] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME - 

another girl would have grown tired of comment, 
ejaculation, and eulogy, and would have found 
excuses galore to be elsewhere. But Mary loved 
the simple poor, their tender hearts and kindly 
ways. So she gave them her Sunday afternoons 
for correspondence, laughing betimes till the tears 
came, over the things they said and the way 
in which they said them. 

When, for instance, Tom's letter had been 
read, and Mrs. Clancy had reached the end of 
her eulogy, Mary took her "pen in hand." 

"Now, Mrs. Clancy, what shall I answer?" 

"Yerra, child, say we're all well, of course." 

In a strong, neat script Mary wrote down, 
preceded by an introduction, the information 
that all at home were well. Then she stopped 
and looked a question at the kindly-faced little 
woman. 

"Well, child, what is it?" 

"Any more?" 

"Yerra of course there is!" 

Mary waited w^hile Mrs. Clancy sat meditating 
on just what else she had to say. But her thoughts 
came slowly. Finally she said: 

"Mary alanna, my ould head doesn't think at 
all. An' 'tis yourself will have to do it for me. 
Tell Tom to be a good boy, an' go to Mass an' 
his duties, an' not forget to wear the scapulars 
an' carry the rosary. An' while you're writing, 
Mary, I'll make a cup o' tay for the both of us. 
For I can make that anyhow, even if me ould 
head doesn't think." 

[29] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Then Mary laughed, and Mrs. Clancy joined 
her as she went off to make the tea. 

The girl grew serious while the little woman 
set about her task, and imagined herself a mother 
writing to her own son, a stranger in a strange 
land. What tender things she wrote as the pen 
went on its swift course! Into every sentence 
she poured out the Irish warmth of her own young 
soul. Like a poet when the mood is come, she 
wrote on and on, such words of endearment and 
tenderness as can arise only when the heart is 
warm. Later, when tea was over, she read the 
mother-message, and the real mother wept sweet 
tears of holy joy. Then Mary reached down, held 
the face worn by toil and care between her soft, 
white hands, and kissed the wrinkled forehead. 

"May Our Lady and her blessed Son guard 
and keep you, Mary alanna, down to the brink 
of your grave, and beyond it!" 

Presently Mary's swift step was taking her 
down the village street to her home, while Mrs. 
Clancy leaned over the half-door watching her 
wistfully with a sealed letter in her hand. 

Then there was Aunty Purcell, so-called because 
instead of marrying, she took care of eight children 
for her brother when his wife was carried away 
by cancer. The children were now under every 
sky, — two in America, two in England, one in 
Australia, three in Scotland. Mary had to write 
to them all. Then there were odd jobs of all 
kinds, like writing a notice to hand to the priest 
of a Sunday, asking the prayers of the people 

[30] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

for the dead or the sick; or making a neat news 
item out of a Land League meeting for the Lim- 
erick Leader; or writing on cards, with a fine 
flourish, the names of the children for First Com- 
munion or Confirmation. Do not infer from all 
this that there was no one else in the parish of 
Knockfeen who could read or write. There were 
"plenty and more too," as they say. But that 
is not the point at present. 

Mary Connelly's life ran smoothly and sweetly 
enough. She was young, had a kindly heart, a 
winning way that secured her a smile and "God 
bless you!" at every turn of the road, a splendid 
position, and a host of friends among the high 
and low. But there were times when her face 
wore a cloud, — not such a cloud as darkens the 
heavens before a storm, but a white cloud that 
stands in mid-sky of a calm summer day. In 
later years, she would tell you it was a foreboding. 
One can not judge of that; but surely there were 
times when Mary's face was sad and her heart 
was heavy. 

After she had been teaching school for some 
time, Father Tracey met her in the chapel yard 
one morning coming out from first Mass. 

"Mary, they tell me you're a very clever girl, 
entirely." 

"I'm afraid. Father, people have too high an 
opinion of me." 

"Mary, they tell me you're a great teacher 
too," Father Tracey continued, paying no atten- 
tion whatever to Mary's act of humility. "And, 

[31I 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Mary, because you know so much, and because 
you teach so well, I am going to give you one of 
the Sunday 'classes' from now on." 

Mary smiled at the fine diplomacy, and became 
a catechism teacher thereafter. 

She was successful beyond Father Tracey's 
every dream; for she had the rare gift of explain- 
ing great truths in the simple language of children. 
Then she taught hymns to the little ones, and 
had them sing at Mass, with herself at the organ. 
Many an eye was wet with weeping as the young 
voices, mellowed with the accent of the land, 
floated out over the kneeling people. It was all 
so tender and so full of devotion and lifted them 
so much nearer heaven, that Father Tracey decided 
to have Mary prepare them to sing High Mass. 
But this dream was not to be. 

One Sunday morning late in May, Mary and 
her mother were at early Mass and Holy Com- 
munion. On their return home, just as they 
reached the lawn in front of their cottage, the 
young girl was conscious that the face of the 
world was fading away. The familiar things she 
knew so well were half hidden as in a mist. The 
trees, the whitewashed houses, the hills, the grey 
rocks with the glory of the sun upon them, — they 
were all vanishing, vanishing into haze. The 
girl caught her mother's arm, and half whispered 
to herself: 

"The heights!— the heights!" 

"What is it, alanna?" questioned the mother, 
with solicitude. 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"The heights! — the heights! And the golden 
cross!" 

"What golden cross, child?" 

"Mother," said the girl, more calmly, "I have 
not told you, because I did not want to bring 
any sorrow into your life if I could prevent it; 
but I feel the time is now come when I must tell 
you. For two years I have felt as if some great 
trouble were ahead of me. During the last three 
nights, after I went to bed, a golden cross floated 
above my face. When I closed my eyes, it floated 
as in image; and when I opened them again, it 
was still there. I said my Rosary, and always 
the cross lingered till I fell asleep. In my dreams 
I saw it, and when I woke I saw it again like a 
glory. Yesterday in confession I told Father 
Tracey, and he said: ' Child, God's hand is always 
leading us, and in His mercy He leads us only as 
fast as we can go. Your feet may be strong 
enough and your heart may be brave enough to 
go up the heights of sorrow. Be brave, be brave, 
child; and wherever the hand of God leads, 
follow.' Mother, my soul grew strong then; and 
when I received Holy Communion this morning 
my heart was filled with a burning joy, and in 
pauses of it I said : ' Lord, the Master of my 
life, lead and I will follow You up the heights, 
holding Your hand.'" 

"Child, child, all this is wild, wandering talk 
to me! But you're nearer to God than I am. And 
the heights of which you speak, God will show 
you if 'tis His holy will." 

[33] 



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''Mother," said the girl tightening her hands 
convulsively on the arm she held, "the fields are 
fading, and the trees and the hills and the sky 
and the sun. 'Tis getting darker and darker. 
Now — it is quite dark." Then she held the sweet 
little lady in her young arms, drew her close to 
her heart in a long embrace, kissed her, and said 
simply: "Mother, you will have to lead me 
hereafter: I am blind." 

The years went their swift way, and the world 
saw very little change in Mary Connelly's outward 
mode of life. She no longer taught school in the 
city, but she still had her catechism class in the 
chapel. Children would crowd around her, and 
she had a hard task quieting the eager voices 
that begged for the privilege of taking her home. 
Still she played the organ, every key of which 
she knew, every note of which she could awaken. 
The children still sang simple hymns that quick- 
ened all hearts to prayer. 

Mary had been to Knock and to a number of 
holy wells, because her friends insisted she should 
pray for a cure. But always Mary prayed for 
greater resignation, and never for a miracle. 
She was a saint without showing it. Her quiet 
sense of humor, her appreciation of literature, 
her love of her people and her country, — these 
she never put away. She was singularly close 
to God, yet she had the sweet human traits that 
made her lovable. She always visited St. James* 
Well on "Pathern Day." But those who knew 
her heart would tell you that Mary Connelly 

[34] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

would feel she was losing the guiding hand of 
God if the light came back to her sightless eyes. 

"Mary," said Father Tracey, one "Pathern 
Day," as he saw her led from the well by a child, — 
*'Mary, I see you are still climbing." 

"Yes, Father; but you must pray that I may 
not stumble." 

"Child," said the good old priest, solemnly, 
"you can not stumble. Your hand is in the 
Hand of God." 

It is not so long since Mary Connelly died. 
Those at her bedside say that shortly before her 
going, she opened her eyes and saw again the 
golden cross. She reached up her hands as if to 
clasp it, and whispered: "The heights are almost 
won. I am ready to receive my golden cross." 
Then the vision vanished, and her lips moved 
for a little. Presently she was silent, having 
passed out of time to where her sightless eyes 
would forever gaze upon the "golden cross." 



[35] 



THE BRIDGE O' THE GHOSTS. 

JUST about midway on the white road from 
Ardee to Athery, another road crosses from 
the east and runs straight on to the west. If 
you go to the east, you will have at either side 
of you stony fields, on which sheep and goats 
pick such spears of grass as the barren land 
offers, and in the evening lie down together in 
hunger and harmony. If you go to the west, 
you will pass out of the stone belt presently, and 
the vision of vast dairy farms and well-fed cattle 
will lift up your heart. If you lean over the 
breast-high stone fence, a sleek cow will gently 
push up her moist nose into your hand. If she 
were of a common breed, she would probably 
kick up the dirt, and, with a bellow of terror, 
scamper off to her browsing sisters far down the 
field. But she is not. She is of the soil, and has 
caught the friendliness, the bid-you-the-time-of- 
day spirit of the race. So she makes you welcome 
with her large, mild eyes; and when you leave, 
she looks after you with good wishes till you 
vanish in the distance. 

Some way still to the west there is a stately 
old building called Furness Mansion, set in among 

[36] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

great, lordly trees. The road runs through the 
estate, and is quite overshadowed from either 
side by trees that extend a mile or so north and 
south. This tree-shadowed portion of the road 
is about a half mile long; and midway the distance 
is a bridge, under which a clear stream sings on 
its journey northward to join the river Deel. 

Not in the whole length and breadth of Ireland 
is there a gloomier tunnel than this piece of 
road which lies between sunlight and sunlight in 
the Furness estate. The great trees lock their 
thousand arms above it; and when the wind 
comes in squalls from Kerry Head, they writhe 
and swing and toss, and a great groan breaks 
from them that is heard in the hushes of the 
storm. In bright summer days, only a fitful 
play of sunshine breaks through the interlocking 
branches and their fan -sized leaves. And never 
a small boy goes through it of a winter night 
without gripping his father's arm and shutting 
his eyes for fear he should see the ghost. Some 
of the ghost visitations were creations of the 
brain, no doubt; but of others even at this date 
one can not be so sure. 

Sir Philip Furness, the fifth in the family line 
to hold the Furness estate, was a widower, the 
father of two grown-up sons and a daughter. 
He was known to be the worst landlord in all 
Ireland — and competition was keen in those 
days. He committed many crimes, any one of 
which in a well-governed country would have 
sent him to prison. His two boys followed his 

[37] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

wild and wicked ways, while his daughter was 
loved for her goodness and tenderness, and un- 
measured mercy toward God's suffering poor for 
miles and miles around. No doubt the father and 
sons would have been made pay for their sins 
many and many the time by some daring spirit, 
but for the thought of this gentle lady. Her 
word and her smile gave more healing to the 
sick than all the medicines of the apothecary of 
Ardee; and to the poor she gave with such sweet 
grace that her gift was dearer to them than all the 
riches of the king's treasures. They called her 
the "Little Lady" when she was not present, and 
"My Lady" when she was. Her vagabond father 
loved her in his own wild way; and the people 
never blamed her that he was no better, but 
blessed her that he was no worse. 

"Sure, I saw a goat nursing a lamb over on 
the hill at Ballydown the other day," said old 
Paddy Hogan, who had a small holding near the 
estate; "and the goat was that wild he would 
climb up to the cross on the chapel for a sprig 
of ivy; but the lamb was gentle and would 
nibble a bit o' grass undher a tree. So where's 
the use in talkin'? Ould Furness is wild like all 
his breed before him. But the * Little Lady' 
isn't wan o' thim. She's o' the mother's side, and 
the mother came o' good stock. I tell ye again 
there's no use in talkin.' Things is all right as 
God made thim, and bye an' bye everywan 
comes by his own." 

In one corner of his estate Furness kept a 

[38I 



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roan bull that was wilder and more wicked than 
his master. One day two little girls were picking 
sloes on the edge of the estate. They got separated, 
and one of them in her search for the other climbed 
over the^fence into the field where the bull was 
kept. Next day her people found the little body 
beaten into pulp, while the bull looked down 
with unconcern from the other end of the field. 
In all, that bull had crushed out the lives of 
four persons in two years. But Furness always 
said: "My bull is mine; my land is mine. And 
if I put my bull between fences, 'tis for you to keep 
on the safe side." But the longest road has a 
bend, as they say; and it seemed quite in accord 
withf the Greek idea of fate that the roan bull 
should prove the doom of Furness. 

It was the day of the hunt in early January. 
The air was thin and crisp, and if you listened 
you could hear the bay of a beagle or the blast 
of a horn five miles away. It was the season of 
rest, when the potatoes were safe in the pit, 
and the grain was stowed away in the loft, and 
the hayricks were snug as could be under their 
cover of sedge or green rushes. Nearly every 
man and boy turned out for the hunt. For, 
although introduced by the English and confined 
to the gentry, one could never tell when a land- 
lord would get a fall from his horse and break 
a leg or two — and there was a measure of relief 
in that. 

[39] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

So everybody was abroad that crisp day of the 
young year, — alert, excited, ready for fun. The 
fox cover — some five acres of fenced land overgrown 
with furz — was about three miles to the east of 
the Furness property. Men stood on the top of 
hayricks and on fences, and on cairns of stones, 
and on every hill and rise of ground. They were 
in groups of threes and fours, or sometimes alone; 
they were talking of former great hunts and 
great hunters, of how reynard was caught and 
quartered, or won his race for life. They forgot 
they were lauding the race that oppressed them, 
and the sport that made them think of their 
bondage. After a time they drifted to other 
topics and talked of well-nigh every subject 
under the sun, smoking betimes in a quiet way, 
but always with their faces to the cover. 

You could see the foxhounds, their tails 
wagging excitedly above the furz, searching for 
the fox in every section, while the red-coated 
gentry and the ladies of fashion rested easily in 
their saddles till reynard should decide to hie 
himself elsewhere. He did presently. Then the 
official huntsman blew a horn, and hounds, men, 
women and horses galloped off, with much shout- 
ing and hurrah. It was a pleasant sight enough 
to watch the red coats and the black coats and the 
fine ladies careering across the country, leaping 
ditches and wading streams as they followed the 
hounds, that gave tongue as they ran. Many 

[40] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

and many is the mile they went; then at the close 
of the day the fox wheeled around toward the 
Furness estate. Old Furness himself was well 
in the lead, and his two bad sons were not far 
behind him. The "Little Lady" was at home in 
the mansion, not troubling herself about the 
wild ways of the hunt, but instead was making 
ready a tender bit of meat for Maureen Sheedy 
to take to her mother, who was just getting over 
the fever. 

The fox circled the field of the roan bull; the 
dogs followed him and so did the hunters — except 
old Furness. Here was his advantage to make 
a "short cut" and be first man in when the fox 
was caught, and so secure the head — the prize 
of the day. It took less time to open the gate 
than it does to tell it, and off he started across 
the field. The bull saw the red coat and ran up in 
front of the horse. The horse took fright, reared 
and threw Sir Philip. The enraged bull beat the 
life out of his body before man, woman or child 
could reach him. 

There was a full week of mourning; and all the 
gentry of County Limerick, and many a county 
beyond, came to do honor to the dead landlord. 
There was a hearse and four horses and a black 
coffin. There was a half-mile long of fine carriages; 
but there were no beggar women following after, 
weeping, and saying, "God be merciful to him 
that is gone, 'tis he that was good to the poor and 

[41] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

needy!" The "Little Lady" was in a closed 
carriage with her wild brothers; and as she passed, 
those on the roadside said one to another: "God 
pity the ' Little Lady ' ! The ould man was wild 
but he loved his little girl. 'Tis different now, for 
thim boys are as bad as the divils in hell." But 
Paddy Hogan, who was among them, said: "The 
'Little Lady' isn't wan o' thim. She's o' the 
mother's side, and the mother came o' good 
stock. I tell ye there's no use in talkin'. Things 
is all right as God made thim, an' bye an' bye 
everywan comes by his own." 

About a year after, one of the boys was killed 
coming from Dublin, and the other took what 
fortune was coming to him, joined the English 
army, and has never been heard of to this 
day. 

'Twas no secret around West Limerick that 
the ghost of Sir Philip appeared many and many 
a night on the bridge over the stream that flowed 
down to the river Deel. 

"I saw him," said Tade Clancy, "about twelve 
o'clock at night, when I was coming home from 
the horse -fair of Ballyowne." 

"Yerra, how did he look, Tade?" asked one of 
the boys, who was sitting in the semicircle that 
nightly gathered around the turf fire. 

"Well, he looked for all the world like he did 
the day of the hunt, — the red coat, the top-boots, 

[42] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

the spurs an' the whip. He was standing on 
the battlement o' the bridge, looking down at 
the wather. An' whin — " 

''Aiaybe he needed a dhrink where he is and 
came back for it," said a small boy, a member 
of the family, who couldn't resist the tempta- 
tion. 

Tade looked even graver than before. 

"Whin I was a boy I always kept my distance 
whin my elders were talkin'. Silence is the great 
virtue of the young." 

"Well, as I was saying, whin I saw him my 
hat flew off my head and my hair stood straight 
up like the whisks of a new brush. Ned — the 
horse I sold last year at Limerick — stood stark 
still, and forty of the strongest men in all Ireland 
couldn't root him out o' the spot. Thin I saw the 
roan bull coming from behind the trees on the 
north side o' the road, and two streams of fire 
were burning out of his nostrils. Thin Sir Philip 
seemed to walk in the air, and disappeared in the 
woods on the south side o' the road, with the bull 
after him. Thin Ned leaped like mad into the 
air and hardly touched foot to the ground till 
we got home. And you couldn't put the top of 
your little finger on any part of his body that 
wasn't covered with the foam." 

There was testimony galore equally strong, with 
all manner of assuring circumstances. Phelim 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

O'Neill of Ballancar saw him Michaelmas night, 
for instance, galloping down the road in front 
of him, and he stopped stark still at the bridge. 
Then came the loud, long roar of the bull, and 
the ghost of Sir Philip vanished into the night. 
Jimeen Sullivan had seen Sir Philip himself and 
his dead son standing each on one of the battle- 
ments, till the roan bull rushed into the middle 
of the road between them, and they both seemed 
to float down the stream, which the fire from 
the bull's nostrils lighted with a light like blood. 
And testimony was added unto testimony until 
the most incredulous put on some light cloak of 
belief, and the bridge in the gloomy road was 
called the "Bridge o' the Ghosts." It carries 
the name still, and will carry it until the dark 
stone battlements are torn away, and the road 
closed up, and the trees hewn down to let in 
the sunlight and a smile from the blue face of the 
sky. 

Things do not change in Ireland. Men still 
go to the horse fair of Ballyowne, and the quay 
of Athery for seaweed, and to the Ardee apothe- 
cary shop for medicines, and to the Limerick 
races, and to the peat fields afar to the west. And 
many a strong man who would not wink an eye 
before a volley of musketry will bless himself 
and say, "God keep us from harm!" when he 
comes to the "Bridge o' the Ghosts" in the 
dark of the night. Things do not change 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

in Ireland. The names that quicken the love 
or the fear in a man by memories, and the 
song in a man by associations, — these stay for- 
ever. 

The "Little Lady" did not remain long at 
Furness Mansion after the death of her father 
and brother. With her other brother gone, she 
was alone. As everybody expected, she joined 
the Faith of her tenants, having been received 
into the Fold by Father Connelly. Then she 
lowered the rents by half and went off to Dublin, 
where she lived very quietly, leaving mansion 
and estate in charge of a steward. 

If you pass along the walk up to the stately 
old building, every step you take will bring an 
echo; for the whole place is filled with echoes. 
If you enter the mansion, an oil painting of Sir 
Philip will stare at you from the wall, and you 
will start if you have heard his story. They say 
his ghost and the ghost of his son wander in 
endless procession from room to room every 
night, and that the ghosts vanish when they 
hear the bellow of the roan bull, long since dead, 
from the fenced field below. But the steward 
is a silent man and keeps his council, so the 
knowledge of the outer world is founded on 
gossip and hearsay. 

"Yerra, they're gone now, and let thim rest!" 
said Paddy Hogan, one day in the forge at Athery. 
"The Little Lady' isn't wan o' thim anyhow, 

[45] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

and that's sure. She's o' the mother's side, and j 

the mother came o' good stock. I tell ye there's \ 

no use in talkin'. Things are all right as God ■ 

made thim, and bye an' bye everywan comes \ 

by his own." \ 



[46] 



WITHOUT HOUSE OR HOME. 

FROM Limerick to Tralee there runs a spur 
of line which used to bear the name "Water- 
ford and Limerick Railway." Several years ago, 
however, it lost its identity in the " Great Southern 
and Western," and to-day the name is forgotten 
by the younger generation. As the little train 
makes its way from Limerick on to the West, 
you pass into the neighborhood of historic Mungret. 
You will stop at Adare, near which Aubrey de 
Vere and Gerald Griffin made song. You will 
move on and leave a couple of stations of no 
great importance behind you, till you reach the 
small town of Ardagh that quickens memories. 
It was in the summer of the year. The morning 
train was making its accustomed trip across the 
quiet country. But from the vision of red coats 
and white helmets behind the "carriage" windows, 
one would suppose the crushed spirit of Ninety- 
Eight was abroad upon the land, and her Majesty's 
militia was hard upon its wake. But, sad to say, 
it was not the resurrected spirit of Ninety- Ei ght ! 
Indeed, if you saw the handful of men that stood 
around every little station through which the 
train glided, you would know for sure there was 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

no war spirit abroad. Poverty, starvation, emigra- 
tion, coercion and "rack-rents," had but too surely 
subdued the fighting Celt. He accepted his hard 
lot of serfdom sullenly, yet resignedly. The sun 
of his freedom had gone down in the West, and 
his eyes had grown a-weary watching for the 
glimpse of a new day. No, there was no insurrec- 
tion in Ireland that morning. Her Majesty's two 
hundred odd soldiers were bent on no hazardous 
undertaking. 

The little town of Ardagh lies some five miles 
out from a wide acreage of peat fields. In Ireland 
they use the term "bog," a word vastly more 
suggestive and exact. One knows of no land- 
scape more desolate than that which breaks upon 
the view when one is brought face to face with 
a broad area of bog. A wide desert of heath, its 
lonesome prospect unrelieved by a solitary tree, 
its barrenness unblessed by a single blade of 
wholesome grass, spreads out before you. Narrow 
roads, that bend and vibrate on their miry foun- 
dations, run through the bog in different directions. 
In the late summ^er and autumn, either side of 
every one of these roads is lined with "reeks" 
of turf, waiting for buyers who come from other 
parts of the county to haul it home for winter 
fuel. Here and there mud cabins rise up from 
the ground, and through their little chimneys 
the purple smoke rises, spreads, and vanishes. 
Men, women and children are at work during 
the turf season, cutting the sods, hauling them 
away in wheelbarrows, and setting them out to 

[48] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

dry. It is a dreary task, that keeps a man's 
face to the ground, and burdens a woman with 
unnatural toil, and forces children to be ignorant 
and makes them prematurely old. It is dreary 
and hopeless; for if the rain comes hard and 
frequently, as is the case in West Limerick, the 
turf sods become dank and heavy on the heather, 
and the sweat and toil are all in vain. 

Matthew Arnold says that the Celtic word 
gair (to laugh) expresses the character of the 
Celtic race. No doubt it does in part. But were 
he to drive out to the West Limerick bog fields 
in those days and view the lonesome prospect; 
w^ere he to see the sad, solemn faces of men, 
women and children }^oked to profitless labor, 
wearing their hearts away to pay rents, rates 
and charges, and with the meagre balance trying 
to live and be clothed, he would probably conclude 
that gair does not fathom all the soundings of 
the Celt. 

Ardagh had heard the rumors, and so was 
not surprised out of its senses that morning when 
a cordon of black-jacketed, black-gloved, helmeted 
policemen, with guns and bayonets, glorified its 
principal and onl}^ street with martial splendor. 
In Ireland they used to call the policemen "peelers" 
in contempt, and some still have a fondness for 
the name. Up from the little station came the 
soldiers, and above their marching one could 
hear the engine that brought them, puffing on 
and on to the West. There were certain loud 
commands, certain military evolutions, and 

U9 1 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

presently police and militia marched out of the 
town and on to the peat iields. The high call 
of duty that awaited them was the hazardous 
task of turning out a famnly from their cabin 
because they could not pay the annual rent. 
It was a long march of live miles, and the clouds 
were lov/ and threatening. 

"It will rain, boys," said Jerry Sullivan, who 
with two score others followed the marching hosts 
to the scene of the eviction. 

"Faith, Jerry," said Micky Mack, who walked 
beside him, "we don't need a prophet to tell us 
that. Sure everybody knows it always rains 
where there's evictions in County Limerick." 

Whether it was the quiet irony or some more 
patriotic motive that stirred him, Jerry clinched 
his fists till his finger nails left their impress in 
the palms of his hands. 

"Micky Mack, 'tisn't rain we want, but 
brimstone to burn every last landlord and soldier 
and peeler out of Ireland." 

This was treason, no doubt. But it must be 
said of Jerry that he tempered his patriotism 
with prudence; for his words were not heard 
by the paid servants of her Majesty. 

The scene of the eviction was neither formidable 
nor inviting. A mud cabin with two small windows, 
a rush roof, a "reek" of turf a little to one side, 
an outhouse that might have been a barn, a 
cowshed, a stable, or a combination of the three, — 
that was all. The soldiers and policemen made 
revolutions in approved style, and in due time 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

formed a semicircle in front of the house. Then 
the bailiff — a name symbolic among the Irish 
of the lowest in henchmanry — began the duties 
of his ugly office. He walked up to the door, 
properly guarded by policemen, to execute formal 
ejection. 

A purple mist hung over every section of the 
bog, and at this moment, with dramatic fitness, 
Ireland's sky let fall a drizzle of cold, clinging 
rain. Through a gap between two hills one could 
look, and fancy the hovering vapors were a stretch 
of the sea. But the sea was more to the West; 
and every boy and every girl of the family left 
homeless that day would hear its eternal calling, 
would seek and find it, and beyond it, in another 
land, would work out their individual destinies. 

Out of the cabin, followed by the bailiff, came 
a mother and seven children, ranging in age from 
two to perhaps twelve years. The mother held the 
smallest in her left arm, and with her right hand 
was leading a little chubby-faced, barefoot fellow 
of about four. The father had just died a year 
before, hence the pinching poverty that terminated 
in eviction. Because of the helpless condition of 
the young family depending on a widowed mother, 
there was feeling galore throughout all West 
Limerick. Strong talk went out of armed re- 
sistance, and men took rusty guns from their 
hiding-places; spades, shovels, scythes and pitch- 
forks were also pressed into service. But the 
priest of the parish was a prudent man; and, 
while he felt his heart breaking for the sorrows 

[51] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

of his people, he saw at a glance the results of 
an encounter between an organized government 
and a handful of peasantry. So he told his people 
the Sunday before to put back their guns, spades, 
shovels, scythes and pitchforks where they got 
them, and the Lord God would provide for the 
widowed mother and her little ones. Without a 
murmur, because of their great love and reverence, 
they obeyed. But the English Government took 
no chances. Hence the Limerick militia, and the 
cordon of police massed together from the well- 
filled barracks of those days. 

The bailiff locked, bolted and nailed up the 
door. Gradually the crowd broke and melted 
into the mist. The soldiers and police took up 
their return journey, and only a few immediate 
vSympathizers remained with the evicted family. 
These were gathered under the roof of the out- 
house for protection from the drizzling rain. 

"Wisha, Mary," said Ned Connelly, with the 
familiarity of one who had known the evicted 
widow from girlhood, " 'tisn't much that we 
have, for God knows we're all poor around here. 
But there's no house so small it won't hold another. 
An' if you give me three of the little childer, 
Anne will care for thim like her own, till God 
sends us betther times." 

And when, with true Celtic delicacy, Mary 
expressed unwillingness to trouble other people 
with her burdens, saying that the sweet Saviour 
and His Blessed Mother would take care of her 
and her children, there was a chorus of protest 

[52] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

and cries of "Yerra, what ails you, woman?" — 
"Sure we're all one and the same out here in 
the bogs!" — "Yerra, sure if 'tis your turn to-da}^ 
'twill be ours to-morrow!"— "You'd think 'tis 
the house of the Knight of Glen himself we're 
offering you, the way you're carryin' on!" So 
with infinite tact these unlettered bogmen divided 
up the family among them, taking care that the 
mother and the little one should be together with 
an old couple who had never seen the world 
beyond the horizon that bounded the peat fields. 
Then they left, and by nightfall the cabin was 
dark and silent. 

Just seven years ago a young priest got off the 
train at Ardagh and walked up its principal and 
still its only street. It takes very little to quicken 
curiosit}^ in a small Irish town. Mrs. Clancy stood 
at her little shop door, her arms akimbo. 

"A priest from America!" she called to a next- 
door neighbor, whose eyes were also following 
the clergyman. 

"Wisha, and may God help the poor man, all 
the way from thim wild parts ! ' ' said her neighbor, \ 

with large pit}^ | 

The priest secured the service of a jarvy to 
drive him out the same winding road that the 
company of soldiers and cordon of police had 
travelled long years before. He was a tall, ), 

muscular man, not over forty years of age, i 

perhaps. He wore a soft, black hat, below which 3 

appeared a rich growth of dark hair. The jarvy I 

was loquacious after the manner of his kind. \ 

[53] \ 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

But let no traveller mistake the jarvy's racy 
talk — prepared with the same care as that of 
the seller of wares — for the quiet, unobtrusive, 
inoffensive repartee of the unspoiled Celt. This 
priest seemed to know the jarvy's craft. He 
had very little to say, had very little interest in 
what the jarvy was saying, and very naturally 
this man of words reduced his remarks to mere 
exhortations and threats to his horse. 

When they reached the boglands, there was 
no rising mist and no falling rain. A warm wind 
from the sea blew across the wide acres and 
scattered massed clouds over the face of the 
sky. Many a mud cabin had gone down, and 
many a whitewashed home, ample for right 
human living, had arisen in its place. Men were 
still at work on the black bogs, and, as before, 
acres of sod lay drying on the heath. But for 
the most part the men were working for them- 
selves, having purchased their holdings. The 
ruined mud walls of what had once been a cabin 
and an outhouse stood like crumbling tombs in 
an abandoned graveyard. 

The priest viewed the walls and the sky and 
the face of the land. He took a piece of mud from 
one of the fallen walls and stored it away in his 
satchel. "Yes, they'll surely be glad to get this," 
he said, as he snapped the clasp. He looked yet 
again at the sky and over the wide acres of bogs. 
"The mists and the rain are gone; the old cabin 
is nearly gone, too. The men's faces are less 
on the ground, and the women are keeping house 

[54] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

at home, and the children are at school. Yes, it 
was different," he continued musing, "when 
mother and the seven of us were turned out, and 
I was only twelve. But God took care of us." 

"I don't like to disturb your Reverence, but 
you said you wanted to make the evening train 
to Limerick. We have just an hour, and it takes 
the pony fifty-five minutes on a trot." 

In a little while they were gliding down the 
sloping road to Ardagh. The jarvy carried home 
a good fee that night. The priest carried home a 
piece of dry mud and a wealth of memories. 



55 



MICKY THE FENIAN. 

MICHAEL McCABE was his official name in 
the baptismal records kept in the priest's 
house at Athery. At Christmas, Easter and the 
"Stations," Michael McCabe was announced to 
have contributed a half-crown to maintain re- 
ligion, or, as the people about said, to "pay his 
dues." But beyond this official record and these 
tri-annual announcements, the name Michael 
McCabe had no person of flesh and blood to 
correspond to it. Once, indeed, a salesman from 
Limerick came with samples of leather to show 
to Michael McCabe. 

" By gor," said the road man, who was spreading 
small stones in a bad bed of the street, "there's 
ne'er a man here o' that name." 

"Faith there isn't an' never was," said a boat- 
man just come in on the tide with a "cot" of 
seaweed. 

"Yerra," said an old sage, scratching his head, 
"maybe he manes Micky the Fenian — the 
cobbler?" 

Yes, he was a cobbler, the stranger said. 
Straightway all the hands pointed the index 
finger in the same direction, and all tongues said 

[56] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

just the same words at just the same time, "There 
he is foreninst ye." 

Micky the Fenian was a cobbler by trade, by 
reputation a Fenian, and by natural bent a story- 
teller. He was hump-backed, which he said was 
caused by the horse of a trooper stepping on 
him when he was hiding under a clump of bushes. 
He had one eye, having lost the other in a wild 
raid at Ballingarry. His mouth was very large, 
his lips very thin, his head very bald. When he 
told you anything possessing, in his mind, any 
measure of importance, he looked at you and 
spoke to you as if he expected you to contradict 
him. If you didn't contradict, he was disappointed ; 
if you did, you would be apt to remember the 
date in writing your autobiography. 

Micky lived in a small house on a street which 
was called "Pound Lane." The name was given 
on account of a small inclosure in from the street, 
where stray cattle and sheep were kept till re- 
deemed with a fine. The little house was no 
more prepossessing than its owner. There was a 
hump on the roof, caused by a deformed rafter, 
like the hump on Micky's back. There was one 
small window in front, corresponding to Micky's 
one good eye. During his working hours he sat 
inside this window, stitching at a patch or 
hammering little yellow tacks into the fresh 
leather of a new sole. In the brief pauses of his 
work, he would measure the road and then the 
heavens, for no more definite purpose than to 
get the pain out of his back, as he said. He would 

[57] 



ROUND ABOUT 'HOME 

sing v/hen the mood was on him, holding the 
theory that a song Hfts the care out of a man's 
heart. In the days gone by he ''drank a Httle," 
as people charitably put it, and then all the 
fervor of the Fenian days leaped in like a surge 
from the ocean of memory. But during one of 
the missions the "holy Father" gave Micky the 
pledge, and never a surge leaped from the ocean 
of memory afterward. 

All his stories were in the nature of monologues, 
with such interruptions from listeners as might 
be safely made. Interruptions always hindered 
the gliding flow of Micky's speech. 

"I'm o' that kind," he used to say over and 
over again, "I'd rather have a man hit me between 
the two eyes than interrupt the flow o' me words." 

A schoolboy, leaning over the half-door while 
vv^aiting for a pair of shoes, heard Micky make 
this remark: 

"Yerra, Micky, how could I hit you between 
the two eyes, seein' you have only the one?" 

The boy was on the street side of the half-door, 
however, and did not tarry. 

Like many a story-teller of repute, Micky had 
passed the time when he could discern the false 
from the true. Subjectively, perhaps, all that 
he said measured up to facts. Objectively, he 
described and narrated on so gigantic a scale 
that the schoolmaster said he should be classified 
with the saga makers of the Red Branch Cycle. 
The people who heard this did not catch the 
force of the allusion; no more did Micky. But 

[58] 



FOUND ABOUT HOME 

he took it as a compliment, and let it go at that. 

The hero of all Micky's tales was the first 
person singular of the personal pronoun. And 
never in the memory of man did the first person 
singular of the personal pronoun come out second 
in the denouement of Micky's tales. 

To begin with, Micky said he was a Fenian. 
He had no record to show it, except his blind 
eye and his hump, and these were not conclusive. 
But no one seemed able or willing or daring 
enough to disprove his claim, so he went down 
through the years as "Micky the Fenian." He 
reckoned all dates by the number of days, months 
or years before or after some narrow escape or 
daring deed in his shadowy life. One night they 
were talking about the time Jimeen Sullivan 
went out to America, and a dispute arose about 
the year, then Micky said: 

"I beg lave to tell ye, boys, Jimeen Sullivan 
left for the other side, of all the days o' the year, 
the day before I ran from Croom to Cappamore 
with sojers afther me; an' that was in the month 
o' May, sixty-seven." 

Then som^e of the boys said: "Yerra, Micky, 
that must have been a great race!" and " Did they 
catch you, Micky?" and "How did you escape, 
Micky?" Micky relighted his pipe, puffed out 
the blue smoke thoughtfully for a little, and then 
told his stor}^ somewhat after this fashion: 

"Boys, thim wor great days. But the min o* 
me time are all gone, an' there's no min left 
behind." 

[59] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Jim Donnelly talked up and battled for the 
present : 

"Faix there's as good fish in the say as ever 
was caught." 

"There is, is there? Thin if there is, why don't 
ye catch thim?" 

"It was in sixty-seven, — in the month o' May, 
sixty-seven. I was in Croom waitin' to join the 
Fenian min who wor comin' be night from 
lyimerick. 'Twas about seven o'clock in the 
evenin' maybe, an' I was sittin' outside Mike 
Fagan's public house, pretendin' nothin'; for 
there wor two peelers sthandin' on the opposite 
side o' the sthreet. By an' by comes along an 
ould woman with a bucket o' wather on her 
head. An' says she in Irish: 'If Micky the Fenian 
is a wise man an' wants to escape the gallows, he'll 
lave the town to-night; for the dragoons are 
afther him.' — 'A wink is as good as a nod to a 
blind man,' says I. — 'Faix 'tis so,' says Mike 
Fagan, who was sthandin' beside me at the time. 
But the divil a word the peelers understhood, with 
their big helmets up upon thim, that made thim 
look the boobies they were. 

"So with the fallin' o' the night I v/alked un- 
suspicious like out the Pike road till I got beyant 
the tov/n. Thin I ran like I was makin' for the 
gate o' heaven with vSt. Pether waitin' to shut 
it. Glory be to the great God, how I ran an' 
ran, over ditches an' whitethorn finces, an' across 
fields out o' which a lark would rise as I woke 
him! The moon was up, an' the sky was so thick 

[60] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

with stars you could hardly get your little finger 
between thim. But little time I had for moon or 
stars, with the dragoons behind me. Whin I was 
crossin' by Jackeen Madigan's house, his two grey- 
hounds ran out afther me. We had a race down to 
the ditch at the other ind o' the field ; an' — do ye 
believe me, boys? — I bate thim by twenty yards; 
an' jumped over a fince six feet high an' the 
trench at the other side of it." 

"You did!" exlaimed the incredulous listeners. 

"I did, I tell ye!" answered Micky. "I heard 
the galloping horses o' the throopers away on the 
distant road, an' me heart leaped up to me mouth. 
They kep' comin' closer an' closer along the road, 
an' all the time I kep' in among fields till I got to 
the bogs of Cappamore. There was a boreen 
ladin' into the bogs; an', as the ould boy, their 
father, would have it, he brought the dragoons 
along the boreen. I ran in among the sedges that 
grew as straight as a ramrod out o' one o' the 
ponds. So there I hid meself, with only me head 
above the wather an' me hands holdin' on to 
two bunches of sedges to keep me from sinkin'. 
An' the sedges shook like ivy leaves, me breath 
was comin' so fast." 

"They did!" 

"They did, I tell ye!" 

Micky paused here to give his hearers time to 
take in the full difficulty of his situation. 

"Glory be to God, but you wor in a terrible 
way, Micky!" ejaculated Owen Conway. 

[6il 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

' ' He was that ! ' ' came a number of agreeing 
voices. 

"Yerra, how did you come out of it at all?" 
Jim Donnelly asked, anxious for the outcome. 

"Well, if I was a minute, I was down there 
in the wather for two hours, an' the dragoons 
huntin' high up an' low down tryin' to find me. 
An' to this day I don't know how I ever kep' 
sowl an' body together, I was that cowld. At 
last one o' thim came right over where I was, 
an' saw me." 

"He did!" came an exclamation in which 
surprise and doubt commingled. 

"He did, I tell ye! An' he was a Kerry man, 
who for some sthrange reason joined the red- 
coats. Says he in Irish, in a kind of a whisper: 

"'Micky the Fenian! sthay sthill where you 
are, for I see you. There's a rope hangin' from the 
gallows up near Dublin waitin' for you. But they 
won't catch you to-night, Micky; for you're 
one o' me race, an' blood is thicker than wather.' 

"Well, he sthayed around the place so the 
others would keep away. An' by an' by, whin 
they were startin' off, the captain says in a loud 
voice that made the heart in me cowld: 

"'Search that clump of sedges.' 

"'Captain, I searched it already,' says the 
Kerry man, salutin.' 

"'March on, thin!' says the captain; an' away 
they rode. 

"Seven years ago I met that Kerry man at 
the fair of Knockfinnen, an' he was no more a 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

dragoon. He left the sojers an' settled down in 
his father's little holdin' outside Tralee. I thanked 
him with tears in me eyes, an' offered to thrate 
him. 

'"Thank you, — thank you, Micky!' says he. 
'No thratin' for me. I took the Father Mathew 
pledge whin I left the sojers, an' I've always 
kep' it. An' as for savin' your life,' says he, 
'sure you're one o' me race, an' blood is thicker 
than wather.'" 

"He was a good man, God bless him, whoever 
he was!" said Owen Conway, with pious gratitude. 

"He was," agreed Micky, as he put away his 
pipe. 

"But tell me, Micky," asked Jim Donnelly, 
"how did they know you were in Croom.? An' 
how^ did they know the road you took? An' 
what made thim search the bog? An' why couldn't 
they see you in the moonlight?" 

"Didn't I tell you," answered Micky, with 
rising ire, "that the divil, their father, tould 
thim." Then, addressing the others, he added: 
"There are some people, boys, wouldn't under- 
sthand their name if ye spelled it out for thim; 
an' they wouldn't know they have an eye in 
their head till you put your finger in it." 

There is just one other of Micky's narrow 
escapes which stands distinct through the years. 
A force of six policemen formed the searching 
party in this tale. 

"In April, sixty-five," as Micky told it, "I 
druv down in a donkey an' car from Bally finnan 

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to see me sister, a woman with five childer. Her 
husband — a good, honest man he was — they had 
laid away in the graveyard six months before, an' 
she had a hard time enough keepin' the Httle 
ones together. So I wint down to see her, an' 
give her a helpin' hand an' a word o' cheer. There 
was a government spy that saw me, an' he tould 
the peelers. Down they came to me sister's place; 
an' they would ha' caught me out in the garden 
makin' dhrills, only one o' the neighbors ran 
like a hare an' tould me. 

"'Micky,' says he, 'they're comin'!' 

"Faith, I didn't sthop to ask any questions, 
but ran sthraight into the haggard at the back 
o' the house. There was a big rick o' hay, and 
I was for hidin' in it; but out me sister came when 
she saw me, an' says she: 

'"Don't go into the rick, Micky. They'll 
search that.' 

'"Then where'll I go, woman?' says I. 

"Well, to make a long story short, she made 
me sit down in the ground, an' thin got some 
hay out o' the big rick an' covered me with it, 
an' thin got the childer to play quietly around what 
looked for all the world like a cockeen o' hay. 
By an' by the peelers came along ; an' the sergeant, 
a rogue with a red beard and a crooked eye, called 
in to me sister an' says: 

'"Have you any sthrangers in your primises, 
mam?' 

"'Yerra an' what would sthrangers be doin' 
in the primises of a poor woman like me?' 

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'"Is your brother, Michael McCabe, or Micky 
the Fenian, in your house or primises?' 

"'Faix me brother, Micky the Fenian, as ye 
call him, don't often bother me or me primises.' 

'"Haven't you seen Micky the Fenian?' 

"'Yerra of course I have many an' many a 
time! Isn't he me brother? An' 'tisn't ashamed 
of him I'd be.' 

" Well, the long an' the short of it was, the peelers 
got no tale or trace of me from the woman, an' 
sthraight away they began searchin' the rick of 
hay. They druv the swords down into it, an' 
sideways through it, an' didn't lave a wisp they 
didn't examine. But the childer kep' on playin' 
around the cockeen, pretendin' nothin', but 
laughin' an' runnin' about for thimselves. An' 
all the time I was down undher, makin' an act 
o' contrition, expectin' every minute I'd have a 
sword in me back. But God protects His own; 
for the peelers marched off without ever findin' 
me, glory and praise be to Him an' His blessed 
Mother!" 

Micky's stories, as has been said, were not 
literally true; but most of them had the founda- 
tion and rough outer walls of fact; he embellished 
on a large scale, leaving the imagination to fill 
in the details. He was an artist after a fashion, — 
not a polished artist, as the phrase goes. Yet 
he had the gift— call it by what name you will — 
of getting the fragments of a story together, and 
of never wasting a word in telling it. He was 
not a man to catch you with his looks, and he 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

had a vain way of putting himself in the fore- 
front. But human beauty is something given, 
not acquired; and as for a little vanity, nearly 
everybody has that. All told, Micky's faults 
were neither deep nor hidden. His gentleness, 
his charity, his reverence, his simple faith, — these 
were all in the stiller depths beneath" the ruffled 
surface of a brusque, breezy nature. 



[66] 



BROTHER AND SISTER. 

ALTHOUGH Phelim and Danny O'Neill were 
twin brothers, fourteen years old, you could 
hardly find two boys more unlike in appearance, 
talents, and tastes. Phelim was a tall, muscular 
lad, with a well-shaped head of black hair. He 
could cast a stone, twelve pounds in weight, two 
feet farther than many a lad three years his 
senior; he could leap across a trench like a race 
horse; could hurdle and kick football in approved 
style. He was a "block of a boy," as they say, 
who liked the fresh air and the ways and the 
games of a boy. He had a gay laugh, eyes brim- 
ful of fun, and cheeks as ruddy as an autumn 
apple. His father was proud of Phelim the younger, 
and said he would be the head of the house some 
day. The lad was proud of his father, because 
he could train a young horse till a child could 
handle him; because he could tell the value of 
a cow to a half-crown; because he could show 
the servant boy how to make a potato drill as 
straight as a string when 'tis pulled tight; because 
he could tell when the hay should be cut to an 
hour, and when the oats was ripe to a half-hour. 
Phelim O'Neill was a "knowledgeable" man, the 

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neighbors all said; and the neighbors were right. 

Danny was a lad you could blow away with 
your breath, he was that frail. His face and his 
hands were as white as new cream; and his 
eyes were gentle when they were turned full 
on you, which seldom happened; for they had 
a way of losing themselves in vacancy. He 
never played with the boys of his age, as Phelim 
did. Small blame to him either; for he could 
hardly kick the ball four times the length of 
himself, and a six foot trench was too wide for 
him to jump. He was shy and retiring, and 
stayed at home with his mother and his sister 
Nell. He had two other grown sisters also, Mary 
and Ann; but they worshipped the strong and 
the valorous Phelim. 

"I like Phelim, he's so strong and so hand- 
some," Mary said, as she watched her brother 
playing on the lawn. 

"Yes, and his hair is like silk and he carries 
his head high," Ann added. 

There is always a touch of tenderness when 
health and beauty stand on the side of weakness. 
Now, 'twas a known fact throughout Knockfeen 
that Nell O'Neill might pass you by six times a 
days on the highroad, and every time she passed, 
you would say to yourself: "That girl has not 
her equal in all Ireland." Father Tracey was 
not given to comment on the accident of beauty, 
but one day he said: 

"Nell, you're fit to be a duchess or a queen, 
but I hope the Lord God will give you to some 

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honest Irish boy, who will have the beauty 
and the virtue, which kings and dukes don't 
always have." 

So when her sisters sang the praises of Phelim, 
Nell rose to the defence of her frail brother. 

'■Phelim's hair may be silk, and his head may 
be high, and he may be strong and handsome; 
but Danny is first in all his classes, and brings 
home the prizes. Miss Connelly, after catechism 
last Sunday, said he was among the brightest 
boys she had ever met." 

To tell the whole truth, Nell said all this with 
a tilt to her head and an expression of defiance 
lingering about the corners of her mouth that 
provoked a retort. And the retort came, you 
may be sure. 

Then the mother, a woman of fifty, with a 
soft voice that turned away anger, threw in a 
kindly word. 

"Children dear, why do you be working your- 
selves up about trifles? Sure Phelim is mine and 
I love him, and so are you all, and so is my Danny." 

But always the mother drew the delicate lad 
toward her when she said this, and stroked his 
head and held him close for a little. 

"Yes; but, mother, you love Danny more 
than all of us," Mary commented. 

"Mary, didn't you hear the servant girl tell 
you that the grey hen out in the barnyard keeps 
the weak chicken always next her? It wouldn't 
be nature if the mother didn't love the weakest. 
That's why God gives her the mother heart. 

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You're all strong and hearty, and you can go out 
among people and enjoy yourselves. But Danny 
is as frail as a flower; so he stays at home and 
reads for me when you're all away. Yes, Mary 
dear, I love you all, but I love my Danny too." 

Now, she meant to say, "I love ray Danny 
best," but she suppressed the word that might 
inject the poison of jealousy. 

One still has a picture of the O'Neill farm a 
mile out from Knockfeen. A tree-lined avenue 
led up to the house from the main road. There 
were barns and stables and cowhouses to the 
rear. Around these, in the early summer mornings, 
the servants drew from the full udders of the 
well-fed cows the foaming white milk, some of 
them singing as they worked. There was the 
noise of milk cans, and the plaintive bawling of 
calves, and the loud calling of human voices, that 
gave you the impression of business and hurry. 
Sometimes PheHm O'Neill— called "the Masther" 
by the servants — came out from the dwelling- 
house on a tour of inspection. He never talked 
loud or long when matters did not suit him, 
which had a far-reaching effect with his servants. 
For usually the man of few words puts his speech 
into act. Yet "the Masther" was singularly kind 
and treated those who worked for him with 
marked courtesy. "Signs on," remarked one of 
the neighbors, "he gets more out o' thim." 

Directl}^ in front of the living house were 
flower beds interwoven with a network of gravel 
walks. Beyond the flower beds stretched a great 

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lawn, in which, here and there, lordly oaks made 
wide shadows. At the end of the lawn, a stream 
flowed over little slate-like stones, and murmured 
as it went. 

Inside, the house was richly, though not 
grandly, furnished. One does not remember the 
details after so many years, but the impression 
remains of a substantial home with all the home 
comforts. Indeed, Tade Clancy remarked one 
day: 

"By gor', Phelim O'Neill is well off enough 
to be a Prodestant!" 

" He is, — indeed he is," answered Owen Conway, 
"and he deserves it." Then he swerved from his 
thought and added: "Faith the Prodestants are 
all well-to-do in this w^orld, how^ever 'twill be 
wid 'em in the next." 

The years went their swift way, and before 
one knew it Phelim was entering his young, 
healthy manhood. Gradually the father placed 
the burdens he had borne so long on the shoulders 
of the son who carried his name. Mary and 
Ann w^ere married, and had such weddings as 
Knockfeen never saw before or since. But Nell 
was still single; and, though she was yet young, 
people said it was time to select one from the 
many who would be proud of her hand. Somehow, 
Nell did not select, and the neighbors kept wonder- 
ing. Danny grew stronger with years; and, 
though he wasn't a giant and never would be, he 
was no dwarf either. He was sent to Blackrock 
College, because he liked books; so was Phelim, 

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for that matter; but Phelim thought he had 
learning enough after two years' stay, and settled 
down to take up the burdens of the farm. 

One day during the vacation, after Danny 
had received his A. B. degree, Nell and himself 
w^alked out through the flower beds and down 
the wide lawn to the stream. It was cool there. 
Under a tree that threw its shadow across to the 
other bank, they sat down together. The place 
was very still. Only a few wandering bees buzzed 
about in drowsy fashion. Here and there a stone 
projecting above the stream churned the gliding 
waters into foam. Not a bird sang in the summer 
heat; not a dog barked at the coming of a 
stranger; not a cow lowed to be driven to the 
dairy yard, for the milking hour was not yet 
come. It was very quiet there. Neither brother 
nor sister was anxious to break the silence, for 
they were under the spell of the place. 

People who think that entertainment consists 
in conversation, and therefore must always 
converse, miss the meanings of chasmy pauses. 
Often the pause in a song is sweeter than the 
song itself. Those who sit or walk and feel free 
to be silent will speak only when the mood is on 
them. For conversation, like writing or oratory 
or music, must be quickened by inspiration. The 
fact that people so soon grow weary of one another 
often arises from the fact that they have never 
cultivated the language of silence. Nell had a 
secret for her brother, and she wanted his advice. 

•[72] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

When she spoke, she was still half lost in the 
mazes of her reverie. 

"Danny, we have come on together ever since 
we were children. We are children no more. We 
have reached the end of the journey." 

"Yes, the end of the journey!" echoed Danny. 

The girl roused herself. 

"Brother dear, you don't understand me. I 
mean the real end of the journe}^ We must say 
good-'bye and part." 

"Yes, we must say good-bye and part!" came 
the echo. 

Nell shook "brother dear" by the shoulders, 
and her eyes looked straight into his. Then she 
said with emphasis, as if she were a judge pro- 
nouncing a sentence: 

"Danny O'Neill, listen and hear! Your beloved 
sister, Nell O'Neill, whom all Knockfeen expects 
to see married soon, isn't going to marry at all. 
A month from to-day she'll be in the convent of 
Good Shepherd to begin learning to be a nun." 

Danny had caught the pious phrasing of the 
spiritual adviser during his college course; and, 
placing his hand on the head of his sister, said 
with mock solemnity: 

"Daughter, we bless your choice, and hope 
you'll never return." 

Then sister and brother forgot solemnity, and 
their laughter drowned out the buzzing of bees 
and the murmur of gliding waters. But in a little 
while the laughter died away, and they were 
serious again. 

[73] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"Danny, I know my choice will surprise every- 
one around, even if it doesn't surprise you." 

"You see, Nell, I know you better than any- 
body else does, and that's why." 

"Yes, I think you know me, Danny," said the 
girl, looking thoughtfully at her brother. "I 
feel I ought to go, that my place is there; and 
if I stay, I know I won't be happy." 

"Then, go, Nell! I'll miss you, of course. But 
I'd miss you more only I am going too." 

"Going too?" 

So Danny had a surprise also. 

"Yes, I have made up my mind to be a priest." 

"O Danny, how good God is!" And straight 
way the girl reached over and kissed the white 
face of her brother. 

"You'll be in Maynooth for three or four years, 
then you'll be a curate in the city or somewhere 
near it, and you can come in and see me. And — 
oh, 'twill be just like home!" The future nun 
clapped her hands with the joy of anticipation. 

"No, Nell," Danny, answered wistfully. "Even 
that can't be." 

"That can't be!'' exclaimed Nell, with marked 
emphasis on the last little word. 

"No." 

"And why, sure?" The head was tilted a 
little to one side, the lips were parted in a troubled 
way, and the eyes were suspiciously misty., 

"Nell, I'll tell you, if you promise not to waste 
time afterward trying to make me change my 
mind." 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Of course Nell promised — for 'twas a great 
secret, — but made all manner of mental 
reservations. 

Danny began: "Last year, some time before 
Christmas, a priest from America visited the 
college. He was a missionary priest from Texas, 
a State bordering on Mexico. He was with us only 
three days, and the day before he left the president 
asked him to address the students. He was a 
tall, thin man, about fifty years of age, who had 
left Ireland twenty years before, and had never 
seen it since. He was returning, he said, to visit 
the old place in Galway where his sister, the only 
living member of his family, was residing. Then 
he switched off and spoke about his far-away 
mission. 'Young men,' I remember him saying, 
' I may say of Texas to you what Christ said to His 
Apostles, of the region about Him, "the harvest is 
great but the laborers are few." He told of the high 
blue sk}^, and the hot sun ; of the ranches, or farms, 
stretching for miles and miles away; the parched 
fields; the cattle wandering over miles of prairie; 
the cowboys that live and die on the backs of 
their horses. Then he spoke of the want of priests. 
'Here are some of you,' he said, 'studying to be 
priests for your owti island home. My parish is 
longer and wider than any seven dioceses in 
Ireland. Here you have priests in abundance; 
there, the men and the women of your own race, 
and of every other race, are hungering for the 
bread of the Word, but there is no one to break 
it to them. There is a great call from the Heart 

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of Christ for some heroic young men among you, 
who feel they have a vocation for the priesthood, 
to make an act of renunciation and seek the vast 
tractless regions of Texas, there to plant the 
seed of faith. The sacrifice is great but the reward 
is eternal!'" 

Danny paused for a little and then added 
quietly: "Nell, I have made the act of renim- 
ciation. I am going to Texas." 

Nell cried softly, and Danny gazed thoughtfully 
at the stream. There is relief in tears; for when 
the true-hearted girl had wiped her eyes, and when 
the cooling evening wind had removed all the tell- 
tale marks of her weeping, she was calm, almost 
reconciled. She took her brother's arm and they 
walked home together. 

In one of the mission cemeteries of Southern 
Texas there is a well-kept grave with an impre- 
tentious monument at the head. There is a 
well-equipped academy near by. The Sisters 
think it a sweet task each day to water the grass 
that -is always green above the decaying bones. 
They will tell you the story of a refined young 
priest v/ho arrived from Ireland some years before. 
They will speak of his long journeys to Mexican 
camps and scattered ranches of Catholics. They 
will tell of the fever that caught him. They will 
speak of a night when a couple of devoted Mex- 
icans, after bringing the dying priest across wide 
wastes in a canvas-covered wagon, left him at 
the door of the convent to the protection of the 
Sisters. They will not speak of their own large 

• [76] 



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charity in caring for the homeless one, who left 
a home beyond the seas. No; but they will 
eulogize his sweet patience, his readiness to live 
or to die as God willed, his gratitude for every 
least service. Yes, and they will tell with tears 
of a little brass crucifix which he always carried 
next his heart. 

"Send this to Nell. She'll be glad to keep it," 
he said tenderly, when the hand of Death was 
already clutching at his throat. 

Later they sealed the precious relic, with a 
letter, and sent it away. He who had worn it 
and prized it so dearly was also gone away. Four 
weeks later the nun in Good Shepherd convent 
read that letter, so full of sympathy and sweet 
appreciation for him who in life she could meet 
no m.ore. Nell wept long and silently, till every 
page was wet with her tears. Over and over again 
she kissed the little crucifix which he had carried 
so close to his heart. Many and many a time 
afterward she looked at it and held it to her lips 
with a thought and a tear, and a prayer for him 
who had left father, mother, brothers, sisters, 
lands, and all else to seek the wandering sheep 
on the arid plains. 



[77 



THE HILL O' DREAMS. 

WHERE the river Deel flows into the Shannon 
below Athery, there is a wide stretch of 
water that makes one think of the sea. And as 
you watch the smoke of a calm day lifting from 
the chimneys of the passing boats and trailing 
in the air behind them, a longing for the ocean 
clutches your heart. When the sun is warm and 
the blue of the sky is far above, you will sit on 
the crest of a hill out of which grows many a 
rock that has weathered the winds for ages. It 
is a still place up there, — so still, so far away, 
and overlooking so vast a reach of land and 
water, they call it "The Hill o' Dreams." To the 
east of you, the face of the land is flat, and the 
smoke rises out of many a farmhouse, as it does 
from the boats on the river. South of you, and 
on the west side of the Deel, the smoke rises, 
too, from the chimneys of Athery. But you can 
not see the houses, as they lie in a valley below. 
You look north, and then the dreams come; 
for the Shannon is in front of you, deep and 
lordly, bearing its everlasting tribute to the 
ocean. Away on the other side, the hills of Clare 
are faint and far; for a haze hangs before them, — 
the haze of distance. 

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But up there on the hill, when you are still 
young, you never take the slightest account of 
water or sky or land. You sit and dream; and 
the child dreamer never keeps count of his dreams. 
The boats that glide so lazily past you far out in 
mid-river are not carrying turf to Limerick or 
grain to Kilrush: they are fairy boats from 
spirit land, sailing back to spirit land. There is 
a wild longing to join the boats of the fairies and 
sail away to the land of the ever young. You 
watch them as they become a speck and vanish. 
The smoke that hangs on their wake, lifts, grows 
whiter and thinner, and vanishes. The foam in 
their track rises and falls with the wave for a 
little, and vanishes. So, too, your dreams come 
and vanish, as all dreams do. You may never 
be able to write them in story, for the strangest 
dreams are never told; you may never be able 
to sing of them, for the sweetest dreams are never 
sung. Men tell us that whosoever thinks clearly 
can write clearly. Which is true no doubt of 
thoughts as the mind thinks them; for every 
thought is mated to a word. But there are 
dreams that reach beyond language, — dreams 
that come gushing from the wells of memory; 
dreams of faces; dreams of moments, of scenes; 
dreams that quicken the beat of the heart, or 
lure the eye into vacancy. You can not tell of 
these dreams; at least you can not tell of them 
as they come to you in dream hours. 

Below "The Hill o' Dreams" there used to be 
a neat cottage, in which lived Tim Hogan, the 

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laborer, and his little girl. He had other children, 
but some had died, and the rest, when they 
were old enough, sailed west to the country of 
gold, as they thought. Tim's wife was gone, too, — 
but she was gone to heaven; for she was a good 
woman, all the neighbors said. Tim took care 
of a rich man's estate on the other side of the 
Shannon. So he had a good stretch of water to 
glide through in his little boat every morning, 
and an equally long pull to get back home in 
the evening. 

Eileen, the youngest child, was about eight 
years old when she was all that was left to Tim. 
Because she was his all, and he was left, as he 
said, like an old bird in a forsaken nest, with 
only one of the brood to sweeten his life with her 
song, he loved his Eileen with a great love. In 
the morning before he set out to work he folded 
the little girl in his strong arms and held her 
to his anxious heart. 

"Eileen, my coleen dhas, I'm goin' out like 
the tide, an' I'll come back like the tide again. 
An' 'tis my heart will be hungry for the touch 
of you, an' my eyes achin' for the sight of you 
all the day. But God will take care of you, my 
baby bird, till I come back." 

Then her little white hands would tighten 
around his neck, and her little red lips would 
reach up and kiss a hundred times the v/eather- 
beaten face. When he rowed out from the land, 
she watched him from the river-bank, and her 



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young eyes followed him with a great yearning 
till he was lost to sight. 

"Come, Shep!" she would say to the shepherd 
dog that was her companion and protector. "We 
must go in and clear the table after dadda's break- 
fast, and feed the chicks, — and, O yes, I must 
give you some breakfast too, Shep!" 

Shep panted with great delight, taking a few 
rolls on the grass to show his approval. He 
always trotted before the little girl, but never 
very far, and frequently turned back and walked 
directly in front of her. 

"Dada is far out on the river now, but he'll 
be back again to-night." 

Shep would wag his bushy tail, look up at the 
face of his mistress and almost speak. 

When the table v/as cleared, and the house 
swept, and the chickens fed, and Shep had lapped 
up his breakfast, Eileen locked the door, and 
with her lunch and her books neatly stowed away 
in her bag, set out for school along the river- 
bank, with the dog trotting before her. Shep 
left her at the edge of the village, w^here she 
was among kindly people, and ran back to keep 
watch on the cottage through the day. In the 
afternoon he returned, and waited where he had 
left her in the morning till he saw her coming, 
when he bounded for joy at the sight of her, 
and home they went together. 

Eileen was a child of the hill, — a child of 
dreamxS. It was there she watched for the return 
of her father when the sun was sloping to the 

[8i] 



ROUKW ABOUT HOME 

west. She saw the boats come and go like phantom 
ships. She wondered whence they came and 
where they went. Was there some land of mystery 
away to the east, where the mist never hung 
heavy, where fountains leaped in song, where 
soft winds were always sweet with the odor of 
flowxrs? Were the phantom ships bearing the 
happy people of that lovely land out to the great 
sea in the west, at whose brink she stood one 
day with her father and saw the great breakers 
rolling up against the rocks? Were the waves 
calling to them as she heard them call to her 
that day? Were those happy people leaving 
their land of sun and flowers in the east and 
heeding the call of the sea in the west? So Eileen 
wondered day after da}^; and sometimes she 
asked her father, but he said: 

"Child, child, you're always dramin'! Sure 
I'm tired tellin' you there's no lovely land in the 
east. An' those boats carry no happy people 
as I know, except a captain an' a mate an' a 
couple o' helpers. Sure they come from Limerick, 
an' they're going to Foynes or Tarbert or Kilrush. 
An' that's the end of it." 

vSometimes Eileen lifted her eyes from the 
river to the sky, and above her she saw the white 
clouds that were drifting below the motionless 
blue. vShe wondered if the blue might not be the 
ocean of God, it was so large and so far away; 
if the clouds might not be the smoke from the 
ships of heaven. It might be so; for the waters 
fell down from the sky sometimes and made the 

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grass green and brought millions of daisies from 
the heart of the earth. It was good of God to 
send down the rain from the ocean of heaven; 
for the oceans of earth are salty. The stars were 
the lighthouses which the angels lighted to guide 
the ships of heaven. And when the stars were 
not lighted, God was angry and the sea of heaven 
was rolling, and all the ships not safe in their 
harbor were tossed on the billows above. Presently 
when her father's boat appeared above the horizon, 
Eileen put away her dreams and ran down the 
hill to the river to meet him. 

But one evening Tim Hogan came home, and 
there was no Eileen to meet him. At first he 
supposed the child was in the cottage, though 
there never was an evening before when she was 
not waiting for him on the bank. He entered 
the house, his heart beating with terrible sus- 
picions. The place was deserted and dark. 

"Holy Mother of God!" cried the old man, 
"what will I do at all, at all? Sure I never missed 
her this way before, an' I might as well be dead 
as be without my little girl." 

After a while he began to think, and his thought 
took form. He hurried to the crest of the hill: 
it sickened him not to find her there. He walked 
along the river-bank, looked up into the trees 
and down into the water; he went for some 
distance along her path to school, returned and 
searched among the currant bushes of his garden. 
Nowhere, — nowhere! He called, but only the 
lapping of the waves and the murmuring of the 

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wind came back to him for answer. He entered 
a little cave at the base of the hill, where often 
and often the chickens dozed at noontime. It 
was dark — quite dark — there now. He was about 
to leave the place when his foot came in contact 
with some object on the ground. He lighted a 
match, and stretched dead on the earthen floor 
he sav/ vShep, his long, brown-and-white hair 
matted with blood, his head almost severed from 
his body, his teeth broken in his blood-covered 
mouth. The old man rushed out to the cottage 
for a candle, and, returning, viewed the body of 
the dog with a strangely quiet scrutiny. Tim 
Hogan understood now, and choking sobs broke 
from him. 

"O Shep, Shep, my brave dog! They killed 
you, — they killed you, an' stole away my little 
girl! An' never a betther dog followed the feet 
of man than you, my Shep, lyin' dead there in 
the dust!" 

Then he put away his grief as unworthy, even 
as the bride of Christ puts dovsrn her silks and gold 
and gems before the altar. He raised his right 
hand to Heaven and sent up a great prayer : 

"Blessed God, I have never wronged or injured 
man, woman or child! I wouldn't step on the 
meanest thing that crawls upon the face of the 
earth. I have tried to serve You all the years. 
And now, blessed God of my race, let Your 
light be with me till I find my child!" 

Forty minutes later Tim Hogan was in Athery 
on the "square" before the post office, with a 

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number of sinewy men standing around him. 
He had brought them together with very Uttle 
difficulty; for the day was over, and villagers 
usually collected in the "square." Brief as his 
story was, he had not finished when every eye 
blazed fight, and every heart quickened with 
emotion for the lonely man and his stolen child 
and the faithful dog. 

"Of course 'twas the gypsies stole 'er, the poor 
child! Who ever heard of dacent people rimnin' 
off with other people's childer?" This w^as Micky 
the Fenian's thought, and perhaps Micky was 
right. 

Then the information was given that a man 
and two women were seen hovering about the 
town for the past three or four days; that they 
were down by the river-bank, not far from the 
cottage. Testimony followed testimony, given 
with solemn finality, as to the man and the two 
women and their mysterious behavior. Then 
there was some discussion as to Vv^hich road they 
should take to seek for the stolen girl. Some 
said: "Let's take the road to Lim.erick." And 
others said: "Let's take the road to Ardee." 
But Tim Hogan said: "God's holy light is 
guidin' me. Let's take the road to Tarbert and 
the sea." Argument ceased; for Hogan spoke 
quietly and his eyes were full of brilliance. 

Five armed men, including Hogan, mounted 
on swift horses, left the village and trotted west- 
ward into the night. The sky w^as aglow with 
stars and the full moon brightened the silent fields. 

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The men did not speak much on the way, for they 
felt they were on a mission. Tim Hogan spoke 
not at all, but his eyes were always on the west. 
After many hours they were nearing the sea; 
they could hear its everlasting pulse beating; 
they caught its pungent odor in their nostrils. 
The dawn would soon be breaking, and the sight 
of the waters would follow? "But where then?" 
came the question, to the brain of every one 
of the four riders. Tim Hogan divined the question, 
and spoke for the first time in a language not like 
the racy language of the land: 

"The light o' God is guidin' me; we will not 
see the ocean with the sun shinin' on it. We will 
find my child before we get to the sea." 

At the next turn of the road, Hogan and his 
faithful cohorts saw Eileen, like an apparition, 
walking toward them on her journey home. You 
must imagine the child's cry of joy as she leaped 
into the arms of her father; you must imagine 
the great, relieving sobs, the holy kisses, the pro- 
tecting embrace of Tim Hggan once he held 
his little one safe to him. You must imagine the 
men who accompanied the laborer holding their 
horses, silent, bareheaded, reverent, as if God's 
presence was singularly near. You must imagine 
these things, for any attempt to tell must make 
them paltry. 

The journey home is a mere detail. The joy 
of the village when Eileen returned, seated on 
the horse before her father, the words of welcome, 
the prayers, the ejaculations of "Glory be to the 

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Blessed Lord and His Holy Mother!" the talk 
and the wonder and the murmur, — all must be 
passed over as incidents, which, if very interesting, 
would of necessity give the effect of crowding. 

Eileen's own story is soon told. About four 
o'clock on the afternoon she was stolen, two 
women and a man walked up "The Hill o' 
Dreams," where she sat watching the boats. 
Shep sniffed the air uneasily when he saw them, 
nor could the child's gentle coaxing quiet him. 
One of the women asked for a drink of sweet 
milk, as the day was hot and they had a long 
journey to go. The strangers accompanied them 
down the hill to the cottage, Shep keeping close 
to his little mistress, growling viciously if any 
of the strangers came too near. The child opened 
the door and was about to enter, with Shep 
immediately following, when the man, a large, 
burly fellow, suddenly threw himself full weight 
on the dog and penned him to the ground. It 
was an easy task for the two women to force the 
child within the cottage, but it was not so easy 
for the man outside to carry the dog to the cave 
and there almost sever his head from his body; 
for Eileen said it was twenty minutes before 
death hushed his howls. 

Blindfolded and gagged, the child was carried 
off to a gypsy van in an unfrequented road out 
from the village. About eight o'clock in the 
evening they went out to the main road and 
travelled to the west. This gave them about two 
hours' start of the horsemen. But the gypsy van 

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was heavy with all manner of stolen wares, and 
the gypsy horse never travels fast. It was after 
a night of travel that the gypsies got nearer the 
sea, and then they heard the beat of horses' 
hoofs behind them. They tried their hardest to 
quicken the pace, but the best the gypsy horse 
could do was poor indeed; the hoof beats grew 
more distinct, and they debated a little. The 
women were for holding the child. But the man 
suddenly lifted her from where she sat cowering, 
and dropped her on the road, saying: "Follow 
this long enough and you'll get home." Then he 
lashed his horse for the thousandth time, and 
the van rumbled away. 

It must be said that the people of the village 
and the countryside never quite forgave Tim 
Hogan for not allowing the horsemen to follow 
up the gypsies. But Hogan always had the same 
answer : 

"I made my prayer and my promise to God. 
God heard my prayer, and I kept my promise. 
Blessed forever be His holy Name!" 



[88] 



THE TRIUMPH. 

WHEN Maurice Ahern died of pneumonia 
shortly after Christmas, he left a widow 
and a young son behind him. One would say 
Mrs. Ahern was fifty and young Maurice fourteen. 
They were well off enough while the elder Maurice 
lived; but God took him, and then the two had 
to make out for themselves. 

Shortly after the funeral, Mrs. Ahern went up 
to the "Great House" to see the "Masther," 
Sir Robert Ferendale. Her husband had been 
his sheep-tender — shepherd in pastoral phrase, — 
and she wanted to know if she could still keep 
her little house and tend the sheep. The " Masther" 
was not such a bad man, but his sheep must be 
thought of. 

"My good woman, I should like to help you, 
for your husband was a faithful servant; but 
surely you can not take care of all my sheep?" 

"Your honor, I'm not manin' myself, but the 
little boy." 

"Your little boy take care of my sheep? In 
the washing season? In the shearing season? In 
the yeaning season? And the old sheep to be 
sold off? And the new ones to replace them?" 
Impossible! Your son is the merest child." 

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"Yes; but, your honor, he used to be about 
with his father a great deal morniti' an' evenin* 
when he was home from school, an* he does be 
very knowledgeable." 

"Mrs. Ahern, I really am afraid to trust my 
sheep to so young a boy." 

"Wisha couldn't your honor give him a thrial? 
Your honor wouldn't lose much by that." 

"Very well, my good woman; I'll give him a 
trial," the man of acres and sheep replied promptly 
knowing very well he could not lose much in the 
brief space of six or seven days. 
\ The mother brought home the good news, 
saying as she hung up her winter shawl: 

"Maurice agra, the work is hard an' you must 
be up early an' late. But you'll have three sthrong 
fnin to help you as your father — God rest him! — 
had before you. An' you know more about the 
sheep than they think you do. An' God, who 
left you without a father, will give you His hand 
to guide an' help you." 

But little Maurice had high hopes for a day 
ahead; and the prospect of sheeptending in cold 
and heat, wet and dry, early and late, scattered 
his hopes like chaff in the wind. He w^anted to 
go to college — he did not know when or how — 
to study lavvT, and then to be an attorney, and 
later a councillor. He had a schoolmaster who 
rose above the birch and the beating system of 
those days, and spoke to him in a kindly, human 
way. All of them are risen above the system 
now. But one must praise the man who is ahead 

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of his time; for his light is a light unto others, 
and opens pathways to fairer vistas. 

Alaurice was a sensible lad, however, and took 
the present for what it gave, and let the future 
wait for him away in the years. He was already 
in the "second stage of sixth" class in the national 
schools, and spoke English with remarkable 
accuracy. 

"Mother, I was thinking of something else for 
myself, but I see I must put that by for the 
present. To-morrow morning I'll begin tending 
the sheep; and, as I have a little time now, 1 
want to see Mr. Crimmins, the teacher, after 
school is let out.'" 

"Yes, Maurice. An' be back for supper, a 
go to bed early; for there's a long, hard day 
ahead of you to-morrow." 

The lad promised, and passed out of the house. 
John Crimmins, the school-teacher, was a 
bachelor of forty-five, who lived in a neat cottage 
about a quarter of a mile away from the school- 
house. Old Mrs. Doyle, a woman of sixty-four, 
who was all alone in the world, kept house for 
Crimmins, — and kept it well, you mxay be sure. 
She had a motherly way with her, and looked 
upon the teacher as a son, and John looked upon 
her as a mother. It was a pleasant arrangement 
for both of them, and made life run smoothly 
enough. 

When Maurice reached the cottage, Crimmins 
had just got home from school. He was most 
friendly in his greetings to his promising scholar, 

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and made him forget as much as possible the 
gap of distance between them. When one is 
full of a subject one comes out with it quickly and 
Maurice was full of fading visions and dying hopes. 

"Mr. Crimmins, you have been very good to 
me all along, and you have helped me in a hundred 
ways." 

"And, Maurice, I have told you a hundred 
times not to mention goodness or favors from 
me to you." 

"Well, I can't help it this once; for I'm going." 

"Going? Where, my dear?" 

"To leave school." 

"To leave school?" 

The teacher waited for explanations. 

"You know, now that my father is dead, I 
must fill his position or we must leave our little 
home. We can't do that; for we must live, and 
not beg. I learned a good deal morning and even- 
ing about taking care of the sheep from father. 
To-morrow I'll take up his work." 

To Maurice's surprise and, perhaps, disappoint- 
ment, the teacher had no regrets to offer over 
his stern fate. 

"Evidently to take care of your mother and 
to keep the little home is the present duty. And 
the present duty is the first duty, Maurice. Don't 
worry about the future; for the little service 
of to-day takes care of the larger service of 
to-morrow." 

"That's all fine talk," thought Maurice; "but 
fine talk never gets one a schooling." 

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The teacher had more to add: 

"Maurice, keep up the studies, — the Latin, 
the reading of English authors, — and write a 
composition sometimes. I'll help you." 

And straightway this man of axioms wrote 
down a schedule of work for his shepherd pupil 
and promised to help him along. 

Maurice went off in better spirits than he 
had come; for, in spite of drudgery and long 
vigils, his dream was not blotted out forever, 
though it was far away. 

To tell of his daily round of work — keeping 
guard and count of the sheep, warding off disease, 
and fighting it out when it entered the fold; his 
long walks from end to end of the wide estate; 
his watchfulness to protect the interests of his 
master; his tact in getting those under him to 
render full and careful service, — to tell all this 
would be to repeat the story of many another 
lad born at the base of the mountain, who, 
because he longed for larger vision, could not 
be gainsaid, and climbed to the summit. There 
were, in his watch, periods of lull, when he sat 
under a tree and pored over his Latin, or worked 
a problem in mathematics, or read the books 
loaned to him by his teacher. There were many 
occasions, too, when the teacher himself happened 
along and removed difficulties from before the 
active lad, or showed him new^ ways. It was 
like fighting one's path against a high wind on 
a treeless plain, this battling against circumstance. 
Maurice liked it, waxed stronger of purpose under 

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the force of it, and saw his dream come nearer 
day by day. But for one opposing force he would 
have advanced so joyously as almost to forget 
he was a sheep-tender. 

Sir Robert Ferendale had three sons and as 
many daughters. Five of these children one 
may dismiss without a word or a nod, as they 
had no relations whatever with the young dreamer 
of dreams. The second son, who carried his 
father's name, was about a year and a half 
Maurice's senior. Like his brothers and sisters, 
he had a private teacher, following the traditional 
ideas of "gentleman born." Probably he was 
clever enough — one is not concerned. Doubtless 
he made progress in his studies — it is not so 
important. But what surprises one even now is 
that this young, pampered, petted boy, with the 
way of life rosy before him, could stoop to notice 
with envy a lad who ran barefoot about his 
father's fields and wrestled with his father's 
sheep. Yet he did. The reason for his jealousy 
is simple enough. 

On three occasions his own father, in his 
presence, praised the grit and serious manner of 
Maurice. Twice the talented young minister, 
an Oxford man, who occupied the manse close 
by the estate, spoke at dinner of the "wonderful 
eyes of Sir Robert's shepherd lad." A lady whose 
flighty horse Maurice had held for a little spoke 
of the "remarkable working boy who took care 
of the sheep." Then Maurice's talents were 
spoken of once or so, and Lady Ferendale said 

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she wished "Master Bob had as bright a head 
as young Ahern." 

From then on Robert Ferendale, Jr., seemed 
to have but one aim in his young Ufe — to keep 
in the low dust Master Maurice Ahern, Jr., official 
guardian of his sire's sheep. It was an unequal 
contest, you may be sure. Poor Maurice had to 
grin and be silent while the rich young gentle- 
man raged and abused him. He might have 
inflicted bodily punishment on young Ferendale 
for Maurice was known as a hard hitter at school. 
But he had a mother, and it would be small 
satisfaction to her if some time he w^ere to say: 
"Mother, I have made Master Robert Ferendale's 
face black and blue with my fists. I am glad of 
it, too, although I must give up the sheep and 
get out of the house." It was an unequal contest, 
therefore. For if a man's hands are tied behind 
his back, a brave opponent may smite him with 
impunity. 

Young Master Robert would say, as he galloped 
his pony across the fields to where Maurice was 
branding a sheep : 

"You insolent dog, don't you see you're in my 
way? Move off, you beggar!" 

Maurice would move away a little, though 
there were acres of field on either side of him for 
the young gentleman to pass. 

Again, young Ferendale might come upon him 
during the brief periods he snatched for study. 

"You worthless brat! Do you suppose my 
father pays you and gives you a house, in order 

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to have you spend your time reading? You 
ignorant peasant! I'd like to know v/hat you 
want books for?" 

Maurice w^ould put the little volume in his 
pocket and glide away to another section of the 
field. 

He might have stopped the persecution if he 
had complained of the pampered boy to his 
father; for Ferendale was a strict man, who 
would accept no nonsense from his children. 
But, with the instinct of his race against "spy" 
and "informer," he could never bring himself to 
lodge a complaint. All the same, his young mind 
planned revenge, and his young heart longed for 
the day when his turn would come. 

When Maurice was in his eighteenth year, 
John Crimmins' housekeeper died. Owing to the 
careful tutelage of the teacher and his own patient 
work, Maurice was ready to go away somewhere 
to begin his stud}^ of law. But he had not enough 
money to carry him through, nor did he see any 
prospect of getting it. Then the unexpected 
happened, and John Crimmins offered the position 
of housekeeper to his mother, and told Maurice 
to make ready to cross the Channel to take up 
the studies of his profession in England. Some 
days later Mrs. Ahern began her new duties, 
when Maurice was gone to the land of the oppressor. 
Robert Ferendale, Jr., had taken up the study 
of law in a select school some time before. 

The years went their swift way, and fate or 
circumstance or what not at last brought Robert 

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Ferendale, O. C, and Maurice Ahern, Q. C, 
into conflict. The former sheep-tender remem- 
bered the burning insults of days gone by, you 
may be sure; for personal wrong sometimes 
leaves a deep, red wound that time does not heal. 
The trial in which they both appeared as cele- 
brated opponents is so well remembered that one 
need only offer the merest outline. 

Smithfield was an "emergency man" placed 
over the farms of two evicted tenants some miles 
outside Ardee. The landlord of these tenants 
was an "absentee," who spent most of his time 
in keeping up with the races, the yachts, and 
those games of chance which are a part of the 
pastime of the "idle rich." He gave no thought 
to the struggling peasants who were trying to 
eke out a living and to hold up under the crushing 
weight of the rents. Probably the landlord did 
not know who they were, and did not care to 
know. He was a hard, bad spendthrift at best; 
and the agent he employed to collect his rents 
was no better than himself. Two tenants were 
evicted for nonpa3^ment of rent, and this Smith-. 
field from somewhere was sent to occupy one of 
the houses and take care of both farms. 

An "emergency man" at his highest was a 
hateful beast, whose presence defiled the abandoned 
hearth, whose very shadow was unholy on the 
land. Smithfield was the most offensive of a 
very offensive tribe. He swaggered and put on 
the airs of a gentleman, and by and b}^ told the 
two "peelers" sent to guard him to go home, as 

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he could take care of himself. The poorest beggar 
on the road would neither salute him nor answer 
his salutation. He drank freely and his swagger 
rose to insolence. But the people had no mind 
to borrow more trouble than they had already, 
and let him go his way. 

One evening, Margaret Sheehy, a young woman 
of fine appearance, was coming home from the 
dressmaker's at Ardee and was met by Smithfield. 
She fought the fight of her race for the priceless 
treasure of her sex, and was found insensible on 
the road an hour later. When the people heard 
of the outrage their anger leaped out in burning 
tongues of fire. Next morning the police found 
Smithfield dead in the exact spot where the girl 
was found, with three bullets lodged in his head. 
Margaret Sheehy had three brothers, who were 
at once placed under arrest, charged with the 
deed. There was a great deal of talk about cir- 
cumstantial evidence among the attorneys, which 
the laymen could not follow. The concrete facts 
were the death of Smithfield, the arrest of the 
Sheehy brothers, and the great trial at Limerick. 

Young, rich and brilliant Robert Ferendale, 
Q. C, was to prosecute for the Crown. Every- 
body expected that: he was a landlord's son. 
Young, brilliant, but not so rich, Maurice Ahern, 
Q. C, was retained by the defence. Everybody 
expected that, too: he was of the people, and 
proud of it. And you may be sure the people 
were proud of him. Now, if ever, his services 
would be needed. One might call up the fine 

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rhetoric of Mr. Alacaulay on his Warren Hastings' 
trial to describe the time and the scene, but one 
must surely be caught with the purloined property. 
At any rate, the courtroom held all it could hold, 
and out beyond it the streets were packed with 
people. 

In Robert Ferendale's opening speech there 
were finish of language, grace of gesture, and 
wealth of discouraging testimony. One does not 
remember the points after so many years; but a 
distinct impression remains that the distinguished 
councillor had the rope around the necks of the 
Sheehy boys and it needed only the hangman 
to finish them. He was sarcastic, he thundered 
invective against a lawless people till one wondered 
if he would not hang them all; he appealed to 
the jury to stand for law and righteousness as 
against cold-blooded murder in the broad highway. 
He wept some as he spoke of the blameless man 
away from home, rendering a legitimate service 
in the face of boycott and intimidation. When 
he ended at last, many a man and many a woman 
said, "God have mercy on thim poor boys! Sure 
they're as good as dead an' gone!" 

There was a whispering among the solicitors 
and the white-wigged councillors, and many 
nodded, and many more shook their heads. 
Indeed, among the high and the low, it looked 
hard for the three Sheehy boys sitting silent and 
solemn on the prisoners' dock. And a man might 
cry a bit, and not be ashamed of it either, to see 
the crushed and broken parents of the three 

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stalwart lads, and their sweet-faced sister close 
beside them. But often in the darkest hour the 
sun leaps out and scatters the clouds. 

Maurice Ahern, O. C, rose with fine self- 
possession, and there was a very perceptible buzz 
of excitement in the courtroom. 

"My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury." 

He seemed like a fine rider astride a horse 
that at a word would leap into space and annihilate 
miles by the minute. But he did not urge his steed 
yet. Rather he walked his charger. Language, 
with ease and grace, bowing and paying compli- 
ments as he went. 

"My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury: The 
distinguished counsel who has assumed the 
responsibility of the Crown at this trial has more 
than measured up to his previous reputation as 
a master in the craft of matching words. He is 
brilliant and resourceful, and has captivated the 
fancy of the jury and of the crowded courtroom; 
and, I am free to confess, he has captivated me 
also. If matchless language and exquisite finish 
of voice were to decide between him and me, 
between the three prisoners at the bar and the 
dead Smithfield, between guilt and innocence, 
the case might well rest here. But, Gentlemen of 
the Jury, there are issues that even eloquence 
can not tide over; minds that beauty of language 
can not sing to slumber; clamoring rights that 
crushing invective and picturesque irony can not 
hush into silence. Above all, there is a just God" 
(here the young councillor lifted his right hand 

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high above him), "whose truth is eternal and 
must prevail, who holds rich and poor alike in 
the hollow of His hand, and who will bring to 
light the hidden things of darkness." 

Then his charger cantered, and later galloped, 
and finally flew. How like a prophet was this man 
tearing to tatters circumstance after circumstance 
till there was not a shred of it left! How puny — 
to mix the figure — was the polish of Ferendale, Jr. 
before the giant blows of this towering man! 
How every bit of adverse testimony fell into dust 
with the strokes of his sledge! How the jurymen 
listened, with extended necks and parted lips, as 
he sent home every telling circumstance, every 
crushing weight that battered down the feeble 
breastworks of his opponent! There were demon- 
strations and the court rapped for order. 

Suddenly he sw^erved from his thought: 

"And who is this Smithfield? 'A blameless 
man,' the worthy council says, 'away from home, 
rendering a legitimate service in the face of 
boycott and intimidation.' A blameless man? 
Does a blameless man beat an innocent young 
woman into insensibility to steal away her virtue? 
Does a blameless man wait for an innocent girl 
on the highroad and beat her down in the darkness 
of night? Is this the worthy council's concept of 
blamelessness, of chivalry, of modern knight- 
errantry?" 

He went on and on and on. At one moment 
men's eyes blazed fire, at another tears were 
streaming down their rough, weather-beaten faces. 

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He made witnesses contradict themselves, and 
pointed out discrepancy^ after discrepancy in the 
testimony. Half of them were perjurers before 
he had finished the cross-examination, and the 
other half did not wish to stand sponsor for what 
they had at first testified. Young Ferendale 
objected here and there as a matter of duty, but 
this mad rider could neither be reined nor thrown. 
On he went to the bitter end, and closed with a 
peroration that put the courtroom into a frenzy 
of enthusiasm. 

The judge's charge was brief and, to all intents, 
a verdict. The jury filed out, and returned in 
just two minutes with the words, "Not guilty." 
The wild joy that followed one passes over as a 
matter of course. There are scenes and moments 
and feelings that always lose in the telling. 

Coming out from the court, a warm hand clasped 
the hand of the now imperishable Maurice Ahern. 
It was that of John Crimmins. 

"Maurice, Maurice, I'm proud of you! It was 
a victory for ten lives!" 

Maurice returned the pressure of his old friend 
and teacher. 

"My dear old teacher, my dear old friend, you 
share in the triumph! It is yours as well as mine. 
And isn't it worth waiting for all the years?" 



[ I02 ] 



THE BELLMAN OF ARDEE. 

HE might have been a Queen's Councillor if 
he had had schooHng; he might have been 
a Member of ParHament if he had had schooling 
and influence; he might have been a parish 
priest if he had had schooling and a vocation. 
But he had neither schooling, influence nor voca- 
tion; so he was not a O. C. nor an M. P. nor a 
P. P., but merely a town bellman. 

One must not infer from this that Jacky McCann 
had wasted his substance, missed his calling and 
lived in vain. No doubt it was intended he should 
be a bellman from the beginning, and not serve 
her Majesty, the people, or the Church. At 
any rate, Jacky himself had no heartaches on 
that score. He had no regrets over lost hopes, 
no looking back to a cross in the road where he 
might have taken a different direction and reached 
a fairer destiny. He was as happy as a man could 
be here below, and what more should one want? 

Jacky' s calling probably needs explanation. He 
was not a maker of bells, nor a clerk of the parish 
who rang the people to Mass on Sundays and 
days of devotion. Rather his field of work em- 
braced what is done to-day through the advertising 
columns of a newspaper, through billboards, and 
through the manifold other means of reaching 

8 [ 103 ] 



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the public. The bellman was present at every fair 
within a radius of twelve or fifteen miles, and 
was the vehicle that carried information to the 
people assembled from near and far. You had 
fifty acres of upland hay at auction and you 
wanted buyers. Straightway you went to Jacky 
McCann, and secured his services at a fixed rate 
for an hour or a half hour, as the case might be. 
Jacky got the facts correctly stated, took his 
handbell and made his way to the street. Once 
there, he swung his bell back and forth with fine 
rhythm, and secured a measure of attention. 
Then he began in an rotund voice that would 
do credit to Daniel O'Connell himself: 

"At auction. — Fifty acres of prime upland hay 
in the Knockfernah meadows, three miles west of 
Adare. The auction will take place on the morning 
of Wednesday, July the 27th, beginning at ten 
o'clock. Quick sale and ready money! Remember 
the date! John Coughlin, auctioneer." 

Back and forth through the town he went, 
varying the phrasing of his announcement to 
catch the fancy of his listeners. He rang his 
bell betimes to make a noise, to secure attention, 
to get his breath, and to break the monotony. 
When he had served his time of this announcement, 
there were usually two or three more waiting 
for him; in which event he announced them, as 
he said, "like three staves of a song, one after 
the other." For instance, the first would be: 

"Strayed or stolen. — A red milch cow with a 
white face, from O' Donovan's farm, near Croom. 

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Any one giving information that will lead to the 
finding of the animal will be liberally rewarded 
by Michael O' Donovan, owner of the same." 
Ding-dong, ding-dong! 

The second proclamation would roll forth as 
follows : 

"The great horse races of Newcastle will begin 
on July the 9th, to continue for two days. Special 
trains will run from Limerick and Tralee bearing 
the wealth and beauty of all Munster. Splendid 
prizes for the winning horses. The Races! The 
Races! The Races at Newcastle!" Ding-dong, 
ding-dong ! 

Finally, the third might be a political hint: 

"The election of Poor Law Guardians will be 
held next Monday. Do not forget the name of 
William Clancy in choosing an honest man." 
Ding-dong, ding-dong! 

It would be an overstatement to say that 
Jacky's voice and his bell and his sum of infor- 
mation held everybody at the fair of Ardee 
spellbound. Cattle-buyers argued and offered to 
"split the difference"; sellers argued and refused 
to do so, just as if Jacky's voice and bell were 
away down in Co. Belfast. So, too, the go-between 
who tried to close the deal with buyer and seller. 
The buyer, a man from Cork or Limerick let 
us say, would leave the seller, a shrewd, cattle 
farmer from the rich grazing lands of the Golden 
Vale. Yes, the buyer would leave him for good 
and all, to repent for his folly of heart in not 
jumping at his offer. But the farmer would let him 

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go, knowing he would be glad to return if called. 
Then the go-between, the split-the~difference man, 
who might be a chance onlooker, but more often a 
friend of the buyer or of the seller — you could 
never tell which, — would run after the buyer 
and call him back. The buyer would return 
reluctantly, the go-between forcing him, as it 
were. Negotiations might be reopened in some 
such way as this: 

"Yerra what ails ye? An' sure there isn't so 
much between ye that ye can't fix it up." 

"Faith, then, there is," the seller would say 
with dogged insistence. 

Again the cattle-buyer would turn as if to 
leave, dazed at such conduct. The go-between 
would hold him, would face the buyer and would 
put to him this solemn question: 

"Now, Jim, we're all min here, so answer like 
a man. What's the lowest you'll take for the four 
cows?" 

"Forty-four pounds, an' not a ha' penny less." 

Then he would turn to the buyer and ask 
with like solemnity: 

"What's the highest money you can offer for 
the four cows?" 

The buyer would protest by the tombs of all 
the Irish Kings that he didn't want the cows 
very much, anyway; but, in order not to make 
futile the efforts of an honest man, he would 
be willing to make a sacrifice and pay forty 
pounds. 

"There's onty a matther of four pounds between 

[ io6] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

ve," the go-between would declare hopefully. 

Then he would catch the palm of the right 
hand of the buyer and the palm of the right 
^hand of the seller, would strike their palms with 
his palm, and exclaim as if inspired: 

"Split the difference!" 

Not at all! Couldn't think of it! Sure they'd 
both be out money. The cows weren't worth 
it, or were worth twice the amount. To shorten 
a long tale, buyer and seller, after much argument 
and rebuttal, affirmation and denial, agreed on 
forty-two pounds for the four cows, with a 
shilling apiece for luck money. Outwardly, each 
appeared to be giving his home and holding in 
fee simple to the other, though one may reason- 
ably doubt if really they felt that way. 

In the midst of a hundred scenes like this, where 
buyer and seller watched, waited, argued, pro- 
tested, agreed or disagreed, Jacky passed all 
day long. He dodged great bunches of cattle 
that were driven down to the little railway 
station, where a long row of "wagons" stood 
waiting on a side track to receive them. There 
was a vast deal of shouting and cracking of whips 
and bellowing of cows, and generally an appear- 
ance of confusion, out of which would issue 
order in time. The thimbleman was at the fair, 
too, passing a tiny ball of lead from one thimble 
to another. You paid a penny to guess under 
which thimble he hid the ball, and got three 
pennies back if you guessed right. Many a lad 
who thought he was "smart" tried to triple his 

[ 107] 



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money, and got the laugh from bystanders for 
his pains. 

There was the ballad singer lilting a ballad of 
twenty-one stanzas or so, telling the fortunes 
and death of "Shane O'Grady, the boy of Ballyo." 
Many a lad bought the song for a penny, then 
listened to the performer for a while, trying to 
catch the "chune"; for there was no such luxury 
as musical score. If he had a "good ear," he 
caught it; if he had not, he caught it partially 
or not at all, and sang it afterward to a "chune" 
of his own. It made very little difference either 
way. There was a stand of upright whips with 
brass-covered ends. You paid a penny for six 
rings and took six chances to lodge a ring on any 
one of the whips. Sometimes Fortune favored 
you; but the owner of the stand did not leave 
Fortune a very wide field for her favors. As 
the day waned, the sold cattle housed away in 
the "wagons" were taken to Limerick in a special 
"goods" train, to be shipped later to more distant 
parts. The unsold were driven back to the sweet 
grass of their native fields. The bellman still 
rang on, and gave forth his items of news, never 
wear}^ of himself, never weary of the weariness 
of others. 

"But how about the tipsy, turbulent Celt in 
the waning day?" you alliteratively ask. "Is he 
not a product of the fair? And the blackthorn 
sticks? And the fights? And the broken heads? 
Surel}^ the picture is not complete." Even if 
these items, singly or collectively, were a "product" 

[ io8 i 



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of the fair, they would not add anything to the 
picture, if you chose to call it so. But they were 
not a product nor an offshoot nor an after- 
math, nor, in philosophical phrase, a necessary 
consequence. 

The fact is, they never were, except in misty 
tradition, and as an additional foulness in the 
already foul pages of a few self-styled Celtic 
"humorists." You probably have heard of them. 
If you have not, rejoice; for you have not missed 
anything that will add a cubit to your aesthetic 
stature. One hears and reads of riots at "our 
national pastime"; of umpires assaulted; of mob 
violence at conventions; of beating and stabbing 
and blood and violence and murder in our cities 
and small towns. Yet, somehow, they do not 
live in misty tradition. But at the Irish fair and 
market and public meeting, men must drink 
and fight and bleed. We have always imagined 
so, and to imagine otherwise would be to set 
aside the old ideas to which we have grown 
accustomed, and to put on the new which may 
not suit so well. Such conditions may have 
existed fifty years ago. One does not live from 
the beginning. But those who lived then say 
they did not; and they heard from those gone 
before that such things did not exist in their 
generation. And so on to the days of the Mile- 
sians, if you like. No doubt there was a quenching 
of thirst and loud talk and a rov/ and a fight 
now and then. But why call in question the 
peace and sobriety and general right living of 

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the great many, because you have heard of or 
seen the weakness or waywardness or foolishness 
of a very few? 

The fair of Ardee was all over about four 
o'clock. There were few strangers in the town at 
five; by six, scarcely any. It was a quiet town, 
and the police might be up in the barracks, for 
all they had to do. A few of them marched up 
and down the street, to work up an appetite 
in order to eat with more relish the good dinner 
which the taxes of poor people paid for. Other- 
wise they might have been in bed, so far as any- 
body cared. 

Jacky McCann's stock of trade vanished with 
the vanishing crowd. Usually he lingered till 
five o'clock; though he had no proclamations to 
proclaim, for there were scarcely any listeners 
to listen. Then, catching hold of his bell by the 
tongue, he disappeared up a short side street to 
his snug home, where his wife — a quiet little 
woman — had a hot supper waiting for him. 

"I'm back, little woman; an' 'tis tired I am 
thrampin' it up an' down the whole day." 

"Wisha, Jacky, sure I often tell you we have 
enough laid by now to keep us for the rest of our 
days. So why don't you rest and give over?" 

Jack always took up these last words of his kind 

helpmate and sang them with such heart as to 

make you say, "Rise it!" — 

Give over. Wild Rover, put your money in store; 
And you never will be a Wild Rover no more. 

Whether it was because two negatives make 

[ no] 



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an affirmative, or because he had to follow his 
natural bent, at any rate, Jacky never consented 
to "give over." It was only when age and 
rheumatism caught him that he remained at 
home. But for a long time, like an imprisoned 
bird, he hoped for a day when he would be free 
again. And when finally the truth was forced 
upon him that the fairs must go on month after 
month in regular rotation and that he must remain 
away, he took the handbell from where it hung 
and stowed it away in the loft for safekeeping. 
As he did so he said to his helpmate: 

"Little woman, if I go first, ring my bell three 
times in honor of the Blessed Trinity, an' three 
times in honor of the Holy Family, an' three 
times in honor of the virtues of Faith, Hope an' 
Charity. After that throw it into the deepest 
bed of the River Deel; for I'll have no use for 
it up in heaven. An' if you go first, I'll do the 
same thing for you. Then I hope I'll soon follow." 



[ill] 



AROUND THE FIRE. 

YE may say what ye like, but ghosts walk 
in the night just as people on this side of 
the grave walk in the day." 

Tade Clancy put a fresh coal in his pipe and 
spoke with solemnity. No one of the four men 
who sat around the fire that night felt inclined 
to contradict him, even though his remark would 
seem to have been occasioned by a previous 
dispute. Neither, you may be sure, did any of 
his four children, whose seniority of birth gave 
them the traditional privilege of staying up a 
little later than the rest of the flock, nor his hard- 
working wife, who at that moment was remaking 
a dress for one of the little ones and had not her 
mind on spirit-land. Indeed, she was too busy 
with the cares of the present. 

Tade Clancy was steeped in ghost lore. Spirits 
lived closer to him than did his struggling fellows 
on this earth. His imagination ran riot with the 
vision of them. In ever}^ silence of the dark he 
heard their voices, long-drawn and plaintive; he 
saw their forms moving about in the neighborhood 
of old castles, fallen abbeys, graveyards, and 
sometimes along a dark, deserted piece of road. 
He spoke of them with finality and reverence. 

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When you heard him, you would feel inclined to 
say: "This man could not speak with such show 
of conviction if what he says were founded on a 
pretence." 

Every little group he joined the ghosts joined 
with him; every house he entered the ghosts 
followed. Never a man nor a woman died, whose 
going was at all sudden or peculiar, but came back 
to him with a word or a message. He heard the 
banshee in every sough of the wind, — now blending 
with it, now distinct and high, now faint and far, 
now almost lost. He was so much in the company 
of ghosts that one might wonder if he were not a 
ghost himself. Once when a neighbor said so, 
Tade made answer: 

"The ghosts are on the hill and on the plain. 
An' sometimes the hill man sees thim, an' some- 
times the man on the plain. But all don't see 
thim; for they don't show themselves to all. 
An' I'm no ghost that I'll tell you, but only one 
o' thim they come to." 

Around the fire that night the scene was singu- 
larly suited to Tade's train of thought. The turf 
sods were banked high in the hearth; the sparks 
leaped up and vanished with the smoke through 
the chimney ; the group was silent and meditative ; 
the click of the old clock in one of the back 
rooms measured the pauses between Tade's 
solemn words; fitful gusts of wind shook the 
bare tree limbs, and made the windows rattle 
dismally; the occasional patter of the rain seemed 
like the dancing of fairy feet. 

[113] 



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"Wisha, God rest Mick Hannon's sowl!" Tade 
began reflectively; "an' 'tis a night like this 
reminds me of him. I was ridin' down the Creela 
road on the horse I bought at the autumn fair 
of Limerick, an' a fine horse he was. 'Twas about 
tin o'clock of a Saturday night, an' the wind 
blowin', the trees sighin', an' the heavens weepin', 
just like ye hear abroad now. Ne'er a sign of a 
star was in the sky, nor a thrace o' the moon at all, 
at all. I was cantherin' along pretty lively; for the 
hour was gettin' on, an' the darkness isn't for min 
to be out in. Just whin I got to Hasset's lodge, 
at this side o' Downey's cross, a man walked out 
through the closed gates, with ne'er a noise nor a 
sign of any kind to show that he opened thim. 
He sthood in the road in front o' me in a flood 
o' light, with his two hands stretched out." 

Here Tade and his hearers lifted their hats, 
the same as if they were passing by the priest 
or the chapel gate, while the children blessed 
themselves in holy fear. Tade remained silent for 
a little. There was a hush in the wind at that 
moment, and the hound out in the car shed howled 
plaintively. Mrs. Clancy at her sewing ejaculated 
piously: 

"God guard and keep thim without house or 
home on a night like this!" 

"I coaxed the horse," continued Tade, "to 
move on past the vision there in the middle o* 
the road. He picked his way gintly like a lady 
in a muddy boreen, and thrimbled like a spray 
of ivy. As for meself, I thought every minute 

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the sowl would go out o' me body from fright. 
Just as we got on the side o' the road opposite 
the man, a voice spoke that seemed not his voice 
but a voice from far away: 

'"Tade Clancy, stop there!' If the glory of 
heaven was waitin' in front o' me I couldn't open 
me mouth nor lift me hand to make the horse 
gallop away. An' faix the animal himself sthood 
as sthill as a statue. 

'"Tade Clancy,' says the voice again, 'do you 
know me?' 

"Then I found me tongue an' looked at the 
man. I says: 'By gor I do. You're Mick Hannon, 
the son of Paddy Hannon, of BallinagooL' 

"'I was,' says he, ' but I am no more. To-morrow 
mornin' early they'll find me dead body out from 
Athery, at the bind o' the white road. A side- 
car sthruck me at the dark turn, an' the driver 
was the servant o' Hasset, the landlord, an' 
Hasset himself was sittin' in the opposite side. 
An' whin they saw what they did, they galloped 
away and left me dead on the road. Now, Tade 
Clancy,' says he, 'man}^ a man an' many a woman 
about these parts will say I was dhrunk and died 
in me sin. For 'tis their way an' the way o' the 
the world. But 'tis bad for the livin' to spake 
hard o' the dead. An' I wasn't dhrunk, an' me 
sowl wasn't red with sin; for I was back at the 
chapel this day an' the hand o' the priest ab- 
solved me o' me sins an' they are washed away. 
An', Tade Clancy, you silence the tongues of 
thim that spake against me, an' give the money 

[115] 



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they find in me pocket for Masses, for I need 
thim where I am. An' know that it will not 
come well by thim that left me deserted there 
in the dark o' the night.* 

"All at once he vanished, an' there I was alone 
with me horse on the side o' the highway. Whin 
I came home here the childer were all in bed, 
but herself was up sittin' by the fire waitin' for 
the first bate o' the horse's hoof on the stony 
road. An' whin I came in she says: 

"'Yerra, Tade, what ails you? An' is it hurt 
you are?' 

"'Woman,' says I, 'I'm not hurt, thanks be 
to the great God! But don't ask me any more 
questions now, only let us kneel down together 
an' say the Rosary for poor young Mick Hannon's 
sowl.' 

"'For Mick Hannon's sowl! Sure you must 
be taken lave of your sinses. Didn't I see Mick 
Hannon goin' to Athery a little afther dinner?' 

"'He's dead an' gone, an' that's all. So let us 
kneel down an' say the Rosary.' 

"So we said the Rosary and the prayers for 
the dead, while the wind kep' on wailin' an' 
moanin' outside. 'Twas a long time before I 
slep', an' whin I did all night long I saw the 
outstretched arms an' the light an' the pale 
face in the middle o' the road. 

"Early next mornin' the news flew like wildfire 
that Mick Hannon was found dead at the turn 
o' the white road outside o' Athery. An' there 
was terror an' wondher an' talk. But I sthilled 

[ it6] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

the tongues o' thim that gossiped about the 
poor boy, an' had his brother Jim give the money 
found in his pocket to the priest to say Masses 
for his poor sowl. An' may the great God have 
mercy on him, an' may Our Lady put her blue 
mantle about him an' carry him home to heaven! 
I needn't tell ye how ould Hasset was drowned 
at a watherin' place three summers ago, an' 
how a short time afterward his servant boy was 
killed; for ye already know." 

"But, Tade, why didn't you tell the peelers 
how Mick came by his death, an' make ould 
Hasset an' his servant pay for their deed?" asked 
one of the men. 

"Because the ghost o' Mick Hannon didn't 
tell me, that's why. 'Tis for us to do what the 
spirits tell us; no more an' no less." 

"Well," declared Maurice O'Connor, looking 
thoughtfully into the fire, "it may be all well 
an' good to talk about ghosts, but I hope the Lord 
will preserve me from ever seein' one." 

"You shouldn't pray for that," replied Clancy; 
"for the ghosts mane no harm to any one, only to 
warn him or ask his help. Sure you remimber 
ould Ned Condon that died up at Kilcolman 
fifteen years ago." 

Yes, they all remembered; and Tade had 
another story, which, however, did not at all 
illustrate what he said. 

"We all know ould Ned Condon was a miser, 
God forgive me for sayin' anything bad o' the 
dead! But it's no sacret that he was close-fisted 

[1171 



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and stingy, though he had plenty and more o' 
the world's goods. He never would let his wife 
give an apronful o' praties nor a dish o* flour 
to a beggar. He wouldn't let his five childer go 
to school, but kep' thim at home to slave an' 
dhrag for him out in the garden. An' while the 
childer of other people wint off with their strap 
o' books in the mornin', ould Ned Condon kep' 
his childer out workin' from early to late. An' 
the priest tould him to give his family an edu- 
cation; but he wouldn't be said or led by the 
priest, but spint his days heapin' up money 
and his nights countin' it, an' made slaves of his 
childer. Thin he died of a strange disase, an* 
the best docthor in Limerick couldn't tell what 
it was. An' the divil a much o' funeral he had, 
an' ne'er a wake at all. An' whin he was gone, 
the childer who had grown up not able to write 
their names hated the mention o' their ould father. 
The little woman died heartbroken at the wicked 
ways o' thim; but she had the priest an' was 
buried dacent. When she wint, the boys an' the 
girls were worse than ever, havin' no human 
voice now to gainsay or advise thim. The boys 
dhrank an' the girls were rough in their manners. 
The money ould Ned Condon coimted night 
afther night wint like wather through a sieve; 
an' 'tis a known fact, as twenty min o' the parish 
could tell ye, night afther night, whin the boys 
an' girls were away, the ghost o' the miser would 
sit on the stile at the back of his house, moanin' 
and lamentin' the loss of his money. An' many a 

[iiS] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

time I heard him meself, but I never saw him, for 
he was not allowed to appear. The boys an' 
the girls are all gone now, an' the farm belongs 
to other people. But the house is haunted; for 
hardly a night goes by they don't hear strange 
noises an' the moanin' and wailin' o' Ned Condon 
the miser." 

"To bed with ye, childer, an' don't mind yer 
father fillin' yer heads Avith his wild tales!" Mrs. 
Clancy admonished the four privileged ones, with 
a yawn; for she was tired herself, poor woman! 
When the children had gone up to bed, Tade 
took issue with his helpmate. 

"Woman, you talk in a sthrange way o' thim 
that be dead; an' 'tisn't right to make little o' 
holy subjects." 

"Faix, Tade, you're not the Pope o' Rome yet, 
that we have to believe every word you say. An' 
you're not the bishop o' Limerick either." 

Then the man of ghosts turned and addressed 
his wife, while she still held her hand on the 
knob of the door through which she would presently 
enter her room. 

"Woman, I'm not Pope nor bishop, but answer 
me this. Didn't they find Mick Hannon dead 
in the mornin' with money in his pocket, as I 
tould you?" 

"They did." 

"An', later on, didn't ould Hasset an' his 
servant die as I mentioned?" 

"They did." 

"An' didn't I tell you I saw the ghost o' Mick 
Hannon?" [119] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"You did." 

"An' didn't I see the ghost?" 

"That I don't know, Tade; for I wasn't there 
to see. An' all that you tould me could happen, 
an' still you might not see the ghost o' Mick 
Hannon. I never saw ghosts meself an' I never 
want to see any. Our Lord and His Blessed 
Mother an' the holy angels an' saints are enough 
for me." With that Mrs. Clancy quietly closed 
the door behind her, said her prayers, and sought 
a quiet rest from her hard, patient toil of the 
long day. 

The mystic circle was broken. Tade Clancy's 
mood was gone. The veil of mystery that sur- 
rounded him was thrown apart for the present. 
Whether he saw and spoke with spirits one does 
not know for a certainty. But there were times 
when circumstances and coincidences were strange 
and difficult to explain. Withal, it was well for 
him to have so sensible and so practical a wife 
to keep his feet on the ground when his dreams 
lifted him too high among the hills. It was well 
for his well-kept and well-fed children, too, that 
God blessed them with a mother whose ways 
were not too remote from the workaday ways 
of earth. For while it might be well to have a 
father who half lived in spirit-land and shared of 
his visions with them, still they needed the 
practical head and the practised hand of a mother 
to teach them the good and the useful lessons 
of life. 

The circle was broken; the mood was gone. 

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The men lit their pipes anew and passed out to 
their homes. Tade bade them good-night and 
safe journey and bolted the kitchen door. He 
raked the ashes on the fire, which now burned 
low. He varied his prayers from audible excla- 
mations to gentle whispers; then blessed himself 
piously, kissed the crucifix on his beads and put 
out the light. The wind still moaned among the 
tree limbs and the rain swished with every gust. 
Every human voice was stilled within the house, 
and the beasts without were safe in their bedding 
of straw. The moon and stars were still im- 
prisoned behind the black clouds, but the angels 
of God were keeping the watches of the night. 



[I2I] 



MOLL MAGEE. 

OLL MAGEE was a polite beggar with a 
distinct personality. This is important when 
you come to know that nearly all Irish beggar 
women are of a mould. They travel from house 
to house in humble fashion, thankful if they 
get little, and decidedly thankful if they get 
much, — ''Then pray a string of prayers," Jim 
Donnelly used to say, "as long as from Belfast 
Lough to Bantry Bay, an' you never can tell 
whether they mane thim or not." Probably 
Jim was wrong in this instance; for there is very 
little doubt that every beggar woman who lifted 
her voice, lifted her heart also. 

Moll Magee had a personality; and because 
of her personality, and not because of her prayers, 
she was known from Abbeyfeale to Cappamore. 
She dropped in to see Johnny Delaney, a bachelor 
of forty-five, who had a snug house and a snug 
farm. His sister, a woman of thirty-seven, "kept 
the house" and Johnny kept the farm. 

"Yerra, Johnny," Moll said, "aren't you 
married yet ? ' ' 

Johnny abbreviated the first person of the 
verb and answered: 

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"I aran't." 

"An' why?" 

"They don't come to me." 

"Then why don't you go after thim?" 

"Herself is here." 

"Manin' your sister Kate?" 

"Ay!" 

"An' why doesn't Kate get married?" 

"Yerra, why? Tell me, an' I'll tell you." 

"Kate!" Moll called. 

"Yes." 

"Come out here." 

Kate came out from one of the rooms where 
she had been busy sewing. It may seem strange 
that Moll Magee, a beggar woman, could so 
order people about in their own houses. But 
Moll Magee had a personality. 

"Kate, aren't you married yet?" 

Kate abbreviated the second person of the verb 
and answered: 

"I aren't." 

"An' why?" 

"Because nobody asks." 

"They would if you wanted." 

"Yes,^ but he's here." 

"Manin' Johnny?" 

"Ay!" 

Johnny had already gone out to the apple 
orchard. 

"An' why doesn't Johnny get married?" 

" 'Tis a wise man could tell you that." 

"Now, Kate, throve is comin'. An' you'll be 

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waitin* an* waitin' till you're an ould woman 
like me; an' Johnny will be waitin' till he's as 
ould as me ould man when he died, — the heavens 
be his bed this day! Let ye hurry up the both 
o' ye, an' Father Tracey will be mighty glad of 
a double weddin'." 

Now, it never entered the head of honest Kate 
Delaney that Moll was winning her way by the 
subtlest kind of flattery; for Kate was a simple 
girl even if she was burdened with a few extra 
years. People like to be flattered, if one knows 
how. Kate had a good heart, and never let a 
beggar pass out over the threshold with an empty 
sack. For all that, Moll exercised the gentle art, 
and, by the same token, got more than any four 
others combined. So when Kate gave her flour 
and potatoes and some ripe apples and a little 
package of tea, Moll ejaculated: 

"Wisha, may God Almighty bless an' keep 
you, child! An' may the Holy Mother look down 
on you with love from heaven!" 

However m.uch or little Moll received, this vv^as 
the sum and substance of her prayer. And when 
one vStops to consider, brief as her prayer was, 
she asked for much. 

To tell the truth, Moll never looked like a 
woman who could make prayers. No doubt 
she had faith, but her faith was down in the 
deeps and rarely floated on the surface. She must 
have been sixty years, although she could be 
ten less. She was a beggar partly by necessity, 
partly by choice. When she was a young girl 

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she married a soldier in the Enghsh army, — a 
rare occurrence among Irish girls. Her husband 
was a good enough man, but a private soldier 
does not save money. He gets so little, it is 
hardly worth while. Moll travelled through 
England, was with him in Africa and India; 
and if she was not rich, at least she saw the world. 
Let it be said, too, that her soldier husband 
never drank or gambled, and was kind to his 
young Irish wife. He got old and was pensioned. 
Moll had a longing for the land she had left, 
and, by some strange freak of fortune, they 
settled down in the little village of Knockfeen. 
The single pension was just enough to keep 
both, and they lived on happily enough till the 
"ould man" died of what Moll announced as 
"decline." The lone widow was a wanderer by 
nature; she had never learned to do any kind 
of work, so she did what was probably the best 
under the circumstances — became a sort of polite 
beggar. 

Moll was tall and rather erect for her years. 
She had a thin white face that gave evidence of 
refinement, and grey eyes that could shoot sparks 
of fire on occasion. Her hands showed no traces 
of work or weather; her fingers were long and 
slender. She always wore her plain gold marriage 
ring. 

Her wandering nature carried her over a vast 
stretch of country, so that she hardly ever called 
at the same place more than once a year. Then, 
too, people grew so fond of her wit and drollery 

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she found it hard to make many calls during 
the course of a day. If she was successful in 
getting, it is sweet to remember that she was 
also generous in giving. 

Once she met poor Dave Morgan, the Dummy 
of the Pike Road, coming home from the fair 
of Ardee. He looked so wan and worn, and his 
clothes were so tattered after his long day of un- 
successful broom-selling, that her heart melted. 
But she had her own breezy way of expressing 
it. 

"Dave, you look like the scarecrow out in 
Hartigan's garden. You should get married an' 
settle down, an' not be wearin' your life away 
with thim brooms." 

Then when Dave did not answer she added: 

"God forgive me! I forgot the poor man was 
deaf as well as dumb." 

She walked the remainder of the journey home 
with Dave, and gave him the flour and potatoes 
she had collected during the day, keeping just 
enough for her own "bite" that evening. Dave 
protested b}^ gesture, but she brushed him aside, 
saying: 

"Whist, you anashore! Sure I have a tongue 
that's a mile too long, an' can ask for more. 
But you have neither tongue nor ear." 

Many another brisk deed of charity could be 
told of Moll Magee; but they are all recorded 
in heaven, in that book where the writing is never 
effaced. 

To Father Tracey, Moll was the source of 

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unfailing delight. Wherever and whenever he 
met her, he had to stop for a little banter, to 
which she always replied — with courteous dispatch. 

"Moll, I declare you're looking younger every 
day." He paid this compliment one Friday 
morning when he met her during his walk. 

"Faith, then, your reverence, 'tis just like you 
to remark on good looks." 

"I hear you were up at Johnny Delaney's 
yesterday." 

"I was, then, though I didn't think your 
reverence would know it so soon." 

"And, Moll, is there any truth in it?" Father 
Tracey asked, with an air of mystery. 

" Yerra, what do you mane, Father Tracey?" 

"Faith, you know well enough what I mean, 
Moll," Father Tracey declared. 

"Indeed then I don't, your reverence. An' if 
you say what it is I'll tell you." 

"Well, I mean the match." 

"Wisha, glory be to God! An' what match do 
you have in mind?" 

"Between yourself and Johnny Delaney, of 
course. Sure all the parish is talking about it." 

"Wisha, God forgive you. Father Tracey, an' 
to mention marriage between Moll Magee an' 
that little anashore! Sure I was married to me 
ould man once, an' that's enough. An' if I'd 
marry Johnny Delaney, I'd make him sell his 
farm an' buy ould horses an' a scrawny pony, an' 
then we'd go off an' be gypsies. Now, your 
reverence wouldn't like that; for Johnny is a 

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good little man, an' goes to his duties, an* pays 
at all the collections." 

"Speaking of duties, Moll, have you been to 
the 'railing' lately?" 

"I was, then, just a month ago Sunday, your 
reverence." 

"That's a long time ago, Moll." 

*'Yerra, your reverence wants to make a saint 
out of me, like Mary Connelly as goes every day 
since she lost her sight!" 

The very idea of being a saint was terrible to 
Moll. 

"Saint or no saint, come over Saturday." 

"Rut to-day is PMday, an' it always takes a 
week to prepare." 

"Well, start in to-night and be over to-morrow. 
That's the long and the short of it." 

As she walked home to her little cabin, Moll 
declared to herself: 

"Wisha, Father Tracey is getting very quare 
of late. After a while every dacent woman in 
the parish will be a saint." 

Saturday, however, found Moll's tall form 
waiting her turn to undergo the ordeal of saintship. 

The following M^onday she had to leave for a 
long tour back in the mountains. She called in 
to Micky, the Fenian, on her way through Athery, 
for a pair of boots she had left him to repair. 
He had promised to have them ready by eight 
o'clock that morning; but, as usual, they were 
not ready, nor was Micky in any special hurry 
with them either. Micky and Father Tracey 

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were the only two on earth to whom Moll spoke 
with guarded tongue. This morning her ire was 
up, however, and even with Micky she was not 
so guarded. 

"Micky, an' if you'd stop your ould gab and 
your yarnin' with thim boys as comes in here, 
maybe you'd attend to the work of dacent people." 

"Faith, Moll, you were at confession Saturday 
evenin', I hear, but you don't seem to be much 
the betther for it Monday mornin'." 

Micky's remark was intended as a corrective, 
but it failed entirely. 

"Micky, an' if I wasn't to confession Saturday, 
I'd give you another hump on your back, an' 
then you'd have two." 

"If you keep on talkin' like that, Moll, you'll 
have a tongue on you as long as the handle o' 
Mike Hartigan's spade." 

Moll had no time for debate, so she called for 
the previous question. 

"Micky, why haven't you done me boots?" 

"There's lots o' raison, Moll," answered Micky, 
hoping in the meantime to find one. 

"Yerra, Micky, what raisons can you have? 
I have your word, haven't I?" 

"You have," Micky agreed, thankful that he 
had yet another pause to search for a "raison." 

"An' isn't your word your word?" 

"Of course, woman, — of course!" 

"Then why haven't you done me boots?" 

"Tim.e, for one thing," Micky declared, with 
a business air. 

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"Time!" echoed Moll^ with scorn. ''What is 
time to you, I'd like to know? Don't you murther 
it by the minute an' by the hour an' by the day 
telHn' your ould lies to thim boys?" 

Micky lost control, and presently the scene of 
battle changed from Micky's cobbling to Micky's 
veracity. 

"They aren't lies, an' you know it." 

"They are lies, an' you know betther." 

"Moll Magee, I'm not goin' to let you assail 
me in me private character." 

Micky's splendor of diction here shone out 
with conspicuous distinction. 

"Who's assailin' what you call your 'private 
character' ? ' ' 

"You are, who should know betther," answered 
Micky, his voice carrying the note of wounded 
feeling. 

"Micky the Fenian," declared Moll, solemnly, 
"you know very well I didn't assail your char- 
acter, as you say. I'm a dacent woman as never 
assails anybody. An' if you'll give me me boots, 
I'll go out and lave you." 

"Woman, I forgive you!" Micky declared, with 
rare magnanimity. "Sit down there and I'll 
have thim done in two shakes of a lamb's tail." 

Moll sat and Micky worked. Both kept silence 
by mutual compact. One must be truthful and 
say that a lamb might have shaken its tail many 
times before Micky finally said with triumph: 

"Here you are, Moll, an* 'tis a long time since 
I worked so fasht!" 

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"An' long till you will again. What's the price?" 

"Sixpence, but I won't take it." 

"You won't take it? An' why won't you take 
it?" 

"You're of me profession, Moll, an' me service 
to you is what the docthers call professional 
coortesy." (Micky waved his hand with a grand 
flourish.) "You see, your ould man was a sojer — 
in the English army, but sthill a sojer; an' I was 
a Fenian, a sojer of Ireland. An', though he was 
the inimy of me land, I'll rinder him an' his 
mournin' widow the professional coortesy." 

"Wisha, the divil run off with your brag an' 
your professional coortesy, Micky! But if you 
don't want the sixpence, I'll give it to thim that 
do." 

As a matter of fact, when she went by the 
chapel on her way to the west, she put the coin 
in the poor box; then, strange as it may seem, 
she knelt down and said an "Our Father" and a 
"Hail Mary" for Micky. 

All told, Moll Magee was an odd mixture. 
Yet the compound was not unpleasant. If she 
had a racy tongue, she had a generous heart. 
If she could be sharp on occasion, she could also 
be exceedingly tender. When she flattered, it 
was more for the pleasure it gave her than for 
anything else. She could see the odd or the 
foolish, but she never played unduly upon it. In 
a word, she was a type of the race, of which there 
are many. And variety is the spice of a people 
as well as of life. 

[131I 



GOD REvST HIM, PADDY OWEN! 

HIS full name was Patrick Owen MacMahon; 
Paddy Owen he was called. He was named 
Owen in Confirmation, although in Ireland the 
Confirmation name in spoken speech is as useless 
as the letter p in pneumonia. If you called your- 
self John Joseph or Michael Aloysius or Patrick 
Thomas, people would think 3^ou were going to 
start off to the seaside the next summer; and 
if you had such a combination as Alfred Wellington, 
they would say you were aiming at an English 
peerage. You were John, Joseph or Patrick when 
called upon to answer to your name in any official 
capacity; you were Johnny or Jack, Joe, Pat or 
Paddy in conversation with your equals and 
those above or below you. 

Paddy Owen's mother had aspirations. She 
declared time and again in the hearing of the 
high and the low that her husband was a lineal 
descendant of the late distinguished Marshal 
MacMahon. There was no one in the north section 
of the county learned enough in pedigree to dispute 
her claim, although Micky the Fenian said he 
could. Mrs. MacMahon's own father's Christian 
name was Owen. Hence the name of the sainted 

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Apostle of Ireland and her father's name and the 
name of the noted soldier seemed a worthy 
trinity with which to distinguish her first-born. 
She was a good woman, even if she did have 
aspirations. Aspirations are not sinful, but the 
Irish will overlook a big sin seven times a day 
and will not overlook a social aspiration once 
in seven years. 

Mrs. MacMahon's life aim for her son was to 
preserve his name intact. 

"Patrick Owen MacMahon," she would remark, 
"did you lunch this noon?" 

The men resting a little out in the "haggard," 
before beginning the after-dinner threshing would 
joke and jibe till one got tired from laughing 
at them. 

"Patrick Owen MacMahon," Jim Walsh would 
mimic, "did you ate a head of cabbage for your 
lunch this noon?" Another, in a falsetto voice, 
would add: "Patrick Owen MacMahon, will you 
tell your 'mamma' to come out here and rip the 
shaves of whate for the machine?" And finally: 
"Patrick Owen MacMahon, ye can all go to the 
ould boy with yer consate!" 

There were three distinct stages in the retro- 
grade movement of Paddy Owen's name. First, 
there was Patrick Owen MacMahon, which 
endured some six weeks; second, Paddy Owen 
Mac, which endured six months; third, Paddy 
Owen which endured ever after. His mother 
and a few friends of hers always clung to Patrick 
Owen MacMahon. It was purely of scientific 

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interest, however, like the names which botanists 
tag on to flowers. 

In the after years Paddy Owen married and 
had one daughter who was called Catherine 
MacMahon. But tradition is as tenacious as 
tar, and Catherine MacMahon was changed to 
Kitty Owen. Kitty married a man from the 
"mountains." They lived happily enough, though 
not blessed with children, Paddy remaining with 
them till near the completion of his hundredth 
year, when God called him home. It is here our 
story opens. 

To tell the truth, when the news that Paddy 
Owen was dead got abroad, there was no such 
sorrow as one feels over the loss of a young mother 
who leaves six or seven little ones after her. 
When a man reaches close to a hundred years 
he has lived long. He has had a full measure 
of time, and should be prepared to pass out to 
eternity. All credit to Paddy Owen, for he left 
life without a sigh or a tear. He ''had the 
priest," and no rite was wanting that helps to 
mellow and sweeten death. The neighbors near 
about quit cutting the hay, or whatever other 
early summxcr work they v/ere at. 

There was a warm sun the day he died. The 
crows loafed in the air, the cattle loafed in the 
fields, the stream loafed as it stole between its 
sedge-grown banks to the lazy river. And, between 
ourselves, the men round about were glad (since 
it had to be) that Paddy Owen was dead, so they 
themselves could loaf for a day. 

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Though the bishops and the priests were even 
then opposed to all manner of wakes, still, a 
man doesn't often get close to a hundred years. 
Yes, it seemed quite proper to evade the law 
just this once, in some legitimate way, and hold 
a wake. To make a long story short, they got 
around the law somehow — one doesn't remember 
now, for 'twasn't important then, — and Paddy 
Owen had a wake. To speak more correctly, 
there were two wakes. That is to say, Paddy 
died in the morning, and that same night there 
was held what one might call the eve of the wake 
proper. Liturgically speaking, therefore, the 
funeral was a double of the first class, second class 
funerals having only one wake. The first wake 
was a rather private mourning, to which only 
relatives, friends, and near neighbors came. The 
second assumed a more general character, and 
may admit of brief description before the scene 
and the setting pass beyond the regions of memory. 

One wishes there were some sort of Literary 
Holy Office to order burned some two dozen or 
so books on Irish life and character. One would 
dance with blessed glee around the funeral pyre. 
And one may add that a few books one remembers 
by Catholic writers would serve the only good 
turn they can ever serve if they were added to 
the flames. In some of these books the Irish 
wake has been travestied into a drunken orgy 
that would disgrace a pagan, not to speak of a 
Christian people at all. How one scolds! 

At the principal wake the men sat in the large 

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kitchen on improvised seats; the women occupied 
one of the inner rooms. The corpse, clothed in a 
shroud that looked like the habit of the Third 
Order of St. Francis, was laid out in a room 
beyond that occupied by the women. Pipes and 
tobacco were passed around, and the men smoked 
in leisurely fashion and conversed in quiet tones. 
Toward midnight the women drank tea and the 
men drank a measure of whiskey, — that is, those 
who wished it. As each woman took her cup of 
tea, and as each man took his glass of whiskey, 
they ejaculated, "God rest him!" or "God have 
mercy on his sowl!" Later on Mrs. Conway 
led the Rosary for the women, and Tade Clancy 
led it for the men. Mrs. Conway was reasonably 
brief with her prayers, and the women were 
soon free to chat again. Tade Clancy went very 
leisurely and said every "Our Father" and "Hail 
Mary" with great unction. Then he had fifteen 
special intentions to add and several prayers of 
his own one could never find in the prayer-book. 
At last they were ended. 

"By gor, Tade, you're longer than if 'twas the 
Mass you wor sayin'," Jim Shanahan remarked. 

"Jim, prayer never hurts anny man, and 'tis 
betther to be prayin' than sinnin'," came Tade's 
answer. 

"So 'tis, Tade; but a man's knees aren't iron." 

"Sure, Jim, the Rosary won't ever wear a 
man's knees away." 

"Yerra, 'tisn't the Rosary I mind at all, Tade. 
'Tis the thrimmin's you put on. If you'd say 

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the Rosary and sthop, 'twould be well and good. 
But you have your own prayers, an' they're as 
long as Jackeen Hogan's song that has thirty- 
seven verses." 

" 'Tis for the dead, boys. Don't ye complain. 
Thim that's gone will thank ye for it." 

Then Tade, in weird, far-off tones, told a ghost 
story, and every ear listened and every imagina- 
tion quickened as he placed the setting and the 
time, and set forth every circumstance as if it 
were of vital importance to remember and narrate. 
Micky the Fenian told one right after; John 
Conway followed; and so on like a company of 
competing troubadours. There was no incredulity 
in the minds of the listeners, no want of certitude 
in those who narrated. 

Already in those days the practice of keening 
was fast passing out. The keen itself goes far 
back into Irish history, and of course comes from 
the East. Paddy Owen was good and respected 
and belonged to the bygone days. It was fitting 
his wake should be honored by the keen. Three 
old women, who did not practise keening as a 
profession, but remembered or learned the art 
from those who did, stood over the corpse and 
began a sort of half -singing, half -moaning dirge, 
in which the general goodness of the dead man 
was lauded and his special and particular virtues 
repeatedly mentioned. Their bodies swayed back 
and forth rhythmically as they wailed out the 
phrases. There was no set form of words, no 
attempt at continuity of thought, no effort at 

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composition. Indeed, one would find it difficult 
to catch the words, though the general meaning 
was unmistakable. There was no special attention 
given to the keening women. Those attending 
the wake chatted and smoked just the same as 
if no dirge were sent up for the departed Paddy 
Owen. If you cared to listen, you could do so; 
if you had a mind to go nearer for the purpose 
of catching the words, you were equally free. 
Although the keen was even then passing out, 
people took the present instance as a matter of 
course. 

No doubt to many in this modern life the wake 
and the keen and the smoking and the story- 
telling will seem ludicrous enough. Every people, 
however, has peculiar customs that rise out of 
the remote past. And it is a sure sign of shallow- 
ness to laugh at modes and conditions of life 
that dijffer widely from those to which one is 
accustomed, 

Paddy Owen had a great funeral the following 
day. There was Mass at the house in the morning, 
which the specially invited attended ; the priest 
took breakfast, and those who were very specially 
invited took breakfast with him. About three 
o'clock in the afternoon the hearse, drawn by two 
black-draped horses, came up from Athery and 
waited out on the road at the end of the boreen. 
The body was placed in the yellow coffin with 
brass handles. There was some crying as a 
matter of course; for it would not be a funeral 
without that. The body was borne through the 

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door that must never open or shut to it again. 
Four men placed the coffin on their shoulders 
and began the procession out to the road. After 
some time four others relieved them. It is a 
sign of signal honor for the men to carry the 
coffin on their shoulders to the graveyard. 

But Knockf alien graveyard was a long eight 
Irish miles away, and the sun was already far in 
the west; so the coffin was placed in the hearse 
and the great last march began. First there were 
two priests in a side car, each with a large band 
of white linen around his hat, and another band 
over the left shoulder after the manner of a 
deacon's stole. The hearse followed, then the 
immediate mourners; the near relatives and the 
more distant; neighbors and friends; people 
who knew the family, people who knew relatives 
of the family; people in the city with whom the 
family did business, and on, and on, and on, 
till a number of men on horseback brought up 
the rear. 

It was a long journey, and though they went 
as fast as funeral proprieties would permit, the 
shadows Avere gathering when they reached the 
place of burial. The same four men who first 
took the coffin on their shoulders when the body 
was borne from the house took it again now, and, 
preceded by the priests who said the prayers 
of the ritual, circled the entire graveyard. It is 
difficult to discover the origin of this custom, 
though one may surmise it is done as a mark of 
honor to the dead. The body was placed in the 

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grave, the earth was heaved in upon the coffin, 
and one of the priests said five ''Our Fathers" 
and five "Hail Marys" for the departed soul. 
The people scattered till at last only Tade Clancy 
and John Conway remained with the men who 
were shovelling in the dark earth. 

"Tade, he lived a long life. 'Twon't be so long 
with us," said John Conway. 

" 'Twon't, John, — indeed 'twon't. Long or 
short, it don't make so much difference, anyway. 
'Tis all in the way a man lives." 

" 'Tis, Tade, — indeed 'tis. But Paddy Owen 
was a good boy, although thim that know say 
his mother had high notions." 

"Faith so she had, but she was a good woman 
for all that, an' raised a fine family. An' Paddy 
Owen was good as a boy, an' good as a man, an* 
was good always." 

"He was, Tade, so he was, — a good boy an* 
a good man. An' now he's dead an' gone. God 
rest him, Paddy Owen!" 



[ 140] 



WICKED DANAWEE. 

IF you walk the "cross cut" from the north 
side of the parish to Knockfeen chapel, midway 
on your journey you will see to your right the 
ruins of some forty-five or fifty houses. Only 
bare walls, many of which are fallen, point to 
where men lived in the misty past. There is 
now no family living anywhere near, as the land 
round about is owned by a rich Protestant from 
the North of Ireland. He has a care-taker who 
looks after the cows, sheep, and horses, that 
wander as they will about the deserted acres. 
If you stray in among the ruins of a summer 
day, when the sun is v/arm and the air still, you 
will catch the spirit of the place. For any man v/ith 
a fancy who stands amid ruins, with the silence 
of death all around, must lose himself in the 
mazes of the past to follow the winding pathway 
of his dreams. 

Here is a house, with one gable still standing, 
in which a window looked to the west. The other 
three walls are in part fallen; and between the 
fallen stones, nettles and thistles grow tall and 
strong. As you look through the space where the 
door once was, you notice a cairn on a rise of 

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ground a short distance away. A solitary cow 
wanders in, looks at you, then at the crumbling 
walls, exhales a great, relieving breath, whisks 
her tail, and walks away to where the grass is 
rich and green. A bumblebee buzzes by, hovers 
for a little over the thistles and nettles, rises and 
vanishes through the vacant window. Down 
among the stones, the frog and lizard are in the 
damp places; while above you a lone crow is 
perched on the top of the gable, turning around 
suspiciously; for experience has taught the crow 
to be cautious. 

Outside runs what was once a village street, 
called the "King's Journey"; for tradition holds 
that one of the Irish kings went by there once 
upon a time, on his way to the more southerly 
portion of his province. There is a stone at the 
end of the street called the "King's Chair," 
where the king rested for want of a better seat. 
To tell the truth, the stone bears no special 
resemblance to a chair; but 'tis called the "King's 
Chair" anyhow, so that ends it. A short distance 
from this chair a flagstone is buried deep in the 
earth, with only its rain-stained upper surface 
showing. In this stone there are two holes, some- 
what resembling two saucers. It is called the 
"Monk's Kneeling Place." A monk from Mungret 
once made a pilgrimage to the village, and spent 
the night kneeling on the stone praying for the 
villagers. Where he knelt is marked forever on 
the flat surface. 

The street is grass-grown as far back as the 

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memory of present-day people goes; but ruined 
houses are lined up at either side of it, to prove 
that men walked over a gravelled surface once 
upon a time. A short distance outside the ruins, 
you can trace the foundations of what was a 
rectangular building; and at the south end, three 
feet of wall still stand. Out from this wall, but 
attached to it, is a sort of stone bracket. On 
the rectangular foundations which you trace 
beneath the tall gtass, was erected the village 
chapel, and the stone bracket is all that remains 
of what was once an altar. 

But how came the ruins? And the people, 
what became of them? That is "a very strange 
story entirely"; and Grandma Hogan, who lives 
by herself in a bit of a house near the Athery 
road, will have to tell us. She is gathering nettles 
for her young turkeys in one of the ruins, and 
she will be glad to rest a bit and give us the 
narrative. 

She is a small woman, wearing a white cap, 
neatly frilled around the border, and caught 
under her chin with linen strips. A dear little 
old lady is Grandma Hogan, with her check 
apron, and her gray shawl gathered snugly over 
her shoulders and pinned at the breast. She carries 
on her marriage finger a plain gold wedding ring, 
which she has worn for fifty odd years, and which 
she will wear till the day she dies. And, please 
God, she will wear it to Kilmeedy graveyard, where 
she will be laid down beside Owen, — him that 
went from her twenty-five years before. Owen — 

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God rest him ! — and she hved a happy life together 
back there among the turf fields of Ballyfm. But 
that's another story. 

"God save you, grandma!" 

"Wisha, God save you kindly! An* isn't it 
fine weather we're havin', praise be to God!" 

"Indeed it is, grandma." Then after a pause: 
"So you're plucking nettles here in this lonesome 
place?" 

"Faix 'tis lonesome enough, sure. But the 
dead an' thim that's gone don't do any harm to 
people as don't interfere with thim." 

"This must be an old, old place, grandma?" 

"Oh, indeed it is! 'Tis hundreds of years ago 
since people lived here, but they're all dead an' 
gone now, so they are." 

"Doesn't anybody here know anything about 
them?" 

" O faix they do! Paddy the Thatcher, who used 
to live down near Ballysteen, told us the story 
many a time whin I was a little girl about that 
high." Then the dear old lady held her hand two 
feet above the ground to show how tall she was. 

"Maybe you'd have time to tell us, grandma? 
It must be a strange story entirely." 

"I have a little time, thin; an' if you sit down 
opposite me on that stone over there, I'll tell it 
to you — lastewise so far as I can remimber." 

She sat down herself too, paused for a little, 
and began: 

"The name of the village which used to be 
here long, long ago was Danawee. Now, what 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Danawee manes I don't know, no more do you, 
nor any one else. 'Tis a strange name, anyhow. 
The people o' the village were a wild an' wicked 
set, so that the divil himself couldn't keep up 
with thim. They were converted Danes who 
came out from Limerick an' settled here. But, 
the story goes, they weren't converted at all, 
only pretended to be. They were drunk all the 
time — at laste the min were; an' by all accounts 
the women weren't much better. An' that's 
why we say of a man who can't lave the liquor 
alone, 'He drinks like a Dane.' But they weren't 
true Christians nor Irish, so 'tis all equal about 
thim. They had a chapel, but the priest couldn't 
live in the village with thim, an' the Holy Sacra- 
ment wasn't kep' there at all. 

"There was a monk in Mungret who was a 
very holy man, an' he heard about wicked Dana- 
wee. So he promised the Lord God on his binded 
knees that he'd make a pilgrimage out here to 
convert the sinful people. He came the long 
journey on foot, an' reached the village at mid- 
night. He spint the rest o' the night kneelin' 
on the stone over there, prayin' for the conversion 
o' the people. In the mornin' whin they woke 
up an' opened their eyes they saw the man o' 
God kneelin' on the stone, with his cowl over 
his head an' his face raised to heaven. A big 
crowd gathered round him in a little while, an' 
the leader o' thim said: 

' ' ' What are you doin' here ? ' 

"'Prayin' for ye, that the thunderbolts o' God 
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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"*We don't care for you nor for God's thunder 
aither.' 

'"Take back those wicked words, you wicked 
man, or God's finger will fall heavy here,* said the 
monk. 

"'To show you how little we fear your threats, 
you fool monk from Mungret, we'll take you 
down the street by a halter.' 

"An' thin the crowd howled like demons, an' 
got a rope an' put it around the neck o' the man 
that prayed for thim all night on the hard flag. 
Thin they led him out the village street, an' each 
one picked up a big stone as they wint; an' whin 
they reached the top o' the hill over there, they 
piled the stones together, and that cairn above 
there is the very same heap they made. Thin 
they placed the poor monk on top o' the cairn, 
and wint around it; an' as they passed one by 
one in front o' him, they struck him on the face 
with the palm o' their hands. Thin they led him 
down an' took off the halter, an' the leader said: 

"'Go back now, you fool monk o' Mungret, an* 
always remimber Danawee!* 

"'Yes, I'll remimber,' says the monk; 'an' God 
will remimber, an' all Ireland will remimber Dana- 
wee for a thousand years an' tin. An' the grass 
will grow on yer street, an' the crow an' the bat 
'will fly through yer windows, an' the frog an* 
the lizard will lie in the damp of yer vacant 
hearths, an' the wild ivy will cling to yer fallin' 
walls, an' the place where I knelt will be marked 
for the mimory of yer wickedness, an' the cairn 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

o' stones will spake of yer sin; for the finger o' 
God will fall heavy here!' An' he shook the dust 
of his sandals upon thim, an' wint his way. 

"The next night, whin all Ireland was asleep, 
the heavens grew dark over Danawee. Thin the 
thunder rumbled an' the lightnin' flashed as if 
hell itself was open. The rain fell, like if you were 
lettin' it down through a sieve; an' the wind 
came from Kerry Head an' roared as loud as the 
thunder. The earth thrimbled, an' the houses 
began to fall, an' the roofs were blown away. 
An* the people who tried to run down the street 
were struck by the lightnin', an' the people who 
stayed within the houses were buried under the 
fallin' walls. An' many cried out: 

***Come back to us, monk o' Mungret, an' 
lift off the curse o' the Lord!' 

"But only the ragin' wind an' thunder an- 
swered thim; for the monk o' Mungret was gone 
away. An' they were all killed that night, while 
the rest of Ireland were sleepin' with the moon 
an' stars above thim. Their bodies were buried 
under the ground, so that no one ever found 
thim; an' their fires were put out, an' were 
never lighted; an' the walls fell, an' were never 
again built. The grass grows on the street as 
you see, an' the frog an' the lizard are in the 
damp below the stones; an' the bat an' the crow 
fly through the windows, an' the cairn of stones 
is still standin' over there on the hill. Min came 
an' saw an' blessed thimselves, but no man ever 
after lived at Danawee." 

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The long shadows are on the fields as grandma 
picks up her basket of nettles and takes her way 
home to the west. The lone crow on the gable 
wings itself eastward, where the forest trees 
join their arms and make a perpetual gloom. 
The voice of the gentle old lady still lingers long 
after she is gone. Perhaps her story is legend or 
fiction or fact. Is it so important? A race of 
poets and story-makers weave their dreams 
out of a meagre happening or a shadowy place. 
They take us back over time, and make us forget 
for a little the stress of the present. They fill 
the hollow places of the day, where fancy may 
rest when we have grown aweary of hearing the 
endless march of men. 

Danawee is very still now. There is no dark 
sky, no roll of thunder, no flash of lightning, no 
roaring wind from Kerry Head. God's anger 
is past, though the ruins of His vengeance still 
remain. 



[148] 



JOHN KENNEDY'S RESOLVE. 

HE'S as good a man as any in the parish, if 
he'd only lave the drink alone," declared 
Mrs. Madigan one day to Mrs. Meehan, who 
kept a small grocery store at the five-cross roads 
below Ardee. Mrs. Madigan was on her way 
home from the Tuesday market, and had pulled 
up her donkey outside the shop. The two women 
shot at telegraphic speed from topic to topic, 
till Mrs. Madigan dispatched her tender message 
about John Kennedy. That .stayed the wandering 
character of their conversation for a little. 

"Wisha, 'tis too bad about John, an' a young 
wife an' four little childer dependin' on him," 
came Mrs. Meehan's sympathetic rejoinder. 

" 'Tis so indeed, Mrs. Meehan; an' a lovely 
girl Mary Nolan was before she met poor John. 
Not a finer young lady passed through the gates 
of Knockfeen chapel yard." 

"An' what nice childer she has!" added the 
other woman. "An' she fustherin' an' draggin', 
tryin' to keep thim nate an' tidy an' he drinkin' 
all their little manes." 

"Wisha, God help the poor woman!" sighed 
Mrs. Madigan, with feeling. 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

When John Kennedy began his apprenticeship 
at Hartigan's forge, Ardee, for which apprentice- 
ship his father paid a good five pounds, every 
growing boy in Knockfeen parish envied John 
his happy lot. For he was taken out of the wind, 
rain and cold of the farm to learn an honest trade 
which in time would bring him "piles o' money." 
John himself was thankful for the good fortune 
which opened the gates to a successful future. 
He was a steady, observant boy, had some 
schooling, was well-mannered, and soon won the 
good will of everybody. 

"That young Kennedy," Tom Hartigan the 
blacksmith would say, when John was out of 
hearing, "is a boy with a quiet tongue an' a 
quick eye. He'll make his mark some day. See 
if he don't." 

Mrs. Hartigan would declare to a caller: 

"Johnny Kennedy is the nicest boy we ever 
had around the house. Of an evenin' whin we 
want a bucket o' water he just seems to know 
it, an' before you have time to say 'How do ye 
do!' there it is on the floor opposite you. Whin 
the childer are annoyin' me an' I tryin' to get 
supper, he coaxes thim out to the little lawn 
back o' the haggard, an' runs around an' plays 
with thim till they're good an' tired an' ready 
enough to be quiet." 

John's years of apprenticeship over, he became 
a regular journeyman in the forge at a wage of 
sixteen shillings a week. He was as honest as he 
was skilled, and did not need the eye of a master 

[ 150] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

to keep him at work. How the iron rang beneath 
the blows of his hammer! How hot and treacher- 
ous, it writhed like a snake; and then, tamed into 
submission, assumed the shape the workman 
intended! With what ease he lifted the horse's 
hoof into his long leather apron! What a power 
of command when he said, ' Ho there ! ' to the 
fidgety animal! To watch him prepare the hoof, 
and fit the shoe, and send every nail home and 
make it secure, was an object lesson on the dignity 
of labor. 

Many a man from Knockfeen parish, when his 
cattle were sold of a fair-day, dropped into the 
Ardee forge just to bid John Kennedy the time 
of the day, and to enjoy a sense of triumph in 
the thought that this giant was from his part 
of the county. So it was no wonder Tom Hartigan 
was sad and sorry the day when John Kennedy 
said he was going to start out in life for himself. 

"Maybe 'tis a raise in wages you're wantin', 
John? If so, say the word," declared Hartigan, 
when John broke the news. 

" 'Tisn't a matter o' wages, Mr. Hartigan." 
(He always said "Mr." when speaking to or of 
his employer.) "You've given me all I've ever 
asked for and all I'm worth. But you see I'm 
tAventy-four now, and there's an openin' down at 
the crossroads below Knockfeen. I'm well known 
b}^ the people around, and I'd best begin for 
myself now, before somebody else gets in 
there." 

"Well, if 'tis to be, John, it will. But I'll miss 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

you many a day; an' so will Mary, you were so 
good to the childer. An' I hope God 'ill bless you 
and keep you, John!" 

"Thank you, Mr. Hartigan, — thank you!" 
answered John, with a full heart. 

Some few weeks later John Kennedy opened 
his forge at the crossroads below Knockfeen. A 
year later he was able to build a neat house some 
short distance from the forge, where he lived 
alone ; for his brothers and sisters were in America 
or married and settled down for themselves. 
Perhaps this was the beginning of John's trouble; 
for when the day's work was over, and he was 
through with his oftentimes cold and ill-prepared 
supper, the house w^as lonesome. For all the 
talk about solitude, a man does not like to be 
always alone. So John in the still of the evening 
walked down the quiet road to Athery, whistling 
the "Blackbird" or maybe "Garryown." 

No man becomes a drunkard in an hour. The 
habit of coaxing, persuading, and minimizing the 
evil — the "sure-what-harm-in-a-little-drop argu- 
ment" — has been at the root of much drunken- 
ness in Ireland. As a rule, men get drunk alone 
only when they are confirmed drunkards. How- 
ever it may be with other races, this is surely 
true of the Celt. His drinking is purely social, 
until he has acquired the liquor mania. And 
we know that men with a mania are much the same 
the world over. 

When John met the boys down at Athery of 
an evening, there was a treat first by this one 

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and then by that, and so on until the circle was 
completed. It is only fair to say that there was 
no drunken man among them when the party 
broke up, about ten or eleven o'clock. It is only 
fair to say, too, that John did not go every night; 
yet he felt lonesome the nights he stayed home. 
One should not follow with a morbid curiosity 
the steps that trace the way to a man's downfall. 
In a short year or so John was what the world 
calls a drinking man, although he was not a 
drunkard. He drank in his hours of leisure "with 
the boys," as they say. It was not one night a 
week, nor two, but every night except Sunday, 
when the public houses were closed. Still he 
was at work in his forge the whole of the long 
day, and to all appearances had lost none of his 
strength or skill. Nor did any gossip go abroad 
about his pleasant evenings down at Athery. 

Mary Nolan and John had grown up together 
from childhood. They were in the same classes 
at school, received First Communion and Con- 
firmation at the same time; and, when they 
grew older, went in each other's company to the 
races of Newcastle, or maybe to a quiet dance 
at one of the neighbor's houses. To speak the 
whole truth, John intended to ask Mary to marry 
him just after he had completed his house. But 
it "cost him a penny" to build a home and 
furnish it. So he said to himself: "I'll wait a year, 
an' when Mary comes into me I'll have more 
than a house to offer her." So he waited, and met 
the boys, and was, as they say, a drinking man 

[153] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

when Mary became his for always in the sun- 
shine of a June morning a year later. 

He kept the straight and the safe road for a 
couple of years after they were married, and 
the eyes of a man could hardly see a finer couple 
as the two went together to first Mass of a Sunday 
morning. John was tall and muscular, and when 
the dust and smoke of the working week were 
washed away v/ith the cleansing waters on Satur- 
day evening, when he wore his collar and tie and 
his well-kept new suit of clothes and his soft hat, 
you would think he was an attorney from lyimerick 
or a Member of Parliament. Mary Nolan, who 
walked at his side, was "a lady born," as Mrs. 
Sheahan put it. She carried herself with an 
easy grace, was cheerful in conversation, and 
strikingly gentle in her manners. 

The birth of the first baby boy, sad to say, 
proved the occasion of John's fall from grace. 
There were neighbors, friends, and relatives at 
the christening, and the joy of the time was in 
full accord with the greatness of the event. John 
proved a splendid host, passing around among 
his guests, encouraging here, and insisting there 
that "joy be unrestrained," as one of the poets 
has it. He drank much himself- — more than was 
good for him by a great deal, — and, after the 
festivities were over in the early morning, spent 
the day in bed. The next night he continued the 
festivities, though there were no visitors or friends 
to encourage him. 

From that night on John Kennedy was a 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

drunkard, carrying with him all the vain hopes, 
maudlin regrets, and weak promises of the slave 
of alcohol. If you had known this giant in younger 
years, if you had ever seen his eyes quick with 
intelligence, his hand strong with manhood's 
strength, his forehead on which stood out the 
sweat of honest labor, — if vou had seen him then 
you would not know the wreck of later years. 
The fire, too, over which he worked was a heap 
of embers long since grown cold; his hammers, 
that rang like bells over the air of the quiet 
country, were thrown about the floor of the forge, 
silent as death. Upturned plows with new socks 
only half fitted, wheels with the rust gathered on 
their bands, pieces of old and new iron, house- 
wives' broken tongs or pot-hangers, wxre scattered 
all about in disorder; while the door of the forge 
lay open, awaiting for footsteps that did not 
come. 

Down at Athery was the wreck of John 
Kennedy, a common hanger-on, — watching, like 
a hound for a whistle, to be offered a drink. When 
the night was far spent and the shop closed, he 
slouched back to the home where the ghost of 
the Mary Nolan that used to be, starved to save 
her little ones. Many a night when he came 
home she would be up to meet him; but she was 
silent then, for it is little use to reason with a 
drunken man. But late in the morning when 
he got up, his eyes bloodshot, his hands shaking, 
she would say to him: 

"O John, John, for love of the old days, for 

[155I 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

love of the old life, for love of what once was 
and isn't any more, give it up! God will help 
you if you try. Think of the little ones, John. 
You're making them paupers." 

And then the great tears would gush out of 
his eyes and he would sob as if his heart were 
breaking. In your pity you would have felt 
inclined to cry with him. 

"As God sees me, Mary, I will! I know I'm 
doing wrong. I'm crushing the pure heart that 
is in you. I know I'm starving my little children. 
God helping me, to-day I'll begin!" 

vSometimes he went straight to Father Tracey, 
took the pledge and received such words of 
counsel and hope as that good priest could give. 
Maybe he kept his resolve for a day or two, 
during which he worked; but even in his labor 
he was struggling with the thirst that kills. 
Many a time he dropped his tools, ran up to his 
house and took up the latest born child in his 
arms. He held it to his hot face a,s a drowning 
man holds to a plank; he kissed the little red 
lips, as if to slake his thirst with their soft, cooling 
touch. But, for all the pledges, promises, tears, 
safeguards, and encouragement, he fell back again 
into the old sin. 

John Kennedy was standing at the far end of 
Jarnes Freeman's public house at Athery one 
October afternoon just when the four v\^ell-kept 
children of the publican returned from school. 
Perhaps John thought of his own children at 

[156] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

home. They might be as well dressed and as 
rosy-faced as these. His wife was a beautiful 
woman, and he was a strong, well-knit man in 
other years. Now his children were paupers, and 
his wife had grown thin with trouble. 

While he was lost in his reflections, the mother 
of the four children brought some fresh cuts of 
buttered bread which she placed on a small 
table near by. Then she went back to the kitchen 
for a tablespoon with which to measure out some 
jam to one of the children who did not relish 
butter. John noticed the buttered bread, and the 
sight of it quickened his appetite. With the 
familiarity of a frequent visitor, he went over 
to the table to take one of the buttered pieces. 
Just as he was about to help himself the mother 
re-entered. She walked straight over to where 
he was, lifted the spoon and rapped the back of 
his hand with it sharply. 

"You filthy loafer! How dare you take such 
liberties in my house! How dare you take the 
bread from my children!" 

John received the insult like one who deserved 
it. 

"Yes, but you have taken the bread from 
mine," he said brokenly. 

"Get out, you insulting fellow!" 

"I deserve it, — a fool deserves anything," John 
commented meekly. 

The publican, who was near the street end of 
the house, heard the high-pitched voice of his 
wife. He rushed back and inquired the cause of 
the trouble. [ 157 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"This drunken blacksmith has tried to take 
the children's lunch, and then insulted me." 

" Kennedy, out with you!" the publican shouted, 
much as if he were addressing a dog. 

"Jim Freeman, listen to me!" 

"Out with you, I tell j^ou! Do you want me 
to kick you out?" 

John Kennedy straightened up. His eyes 
blazed like the eyes of old. He was dangerous 
now. 

"Don't do that, Freeman. Hear me first. Then 
I'll go." 

Freeman and his wife listened, for the publican 
knew the power that still lurked in the giant form 
of the unfortunate blacksmith. 

"Freeman, your wife hit my hand a while ago 
for taking a piece of bread intended for your 
children. For eight years you an' she have taken 
the bread from me, an' I never complained. You 
call me a loafer, a drunkard, a dog fit to kick. 
So I am. But, Jim Freeman, an' you mam, 
listen. John Kenned}^ will go home now an' 
never feed your children again. An' this I tell 
ye by the truth o' God!" 

From the public house he went to his forge 
that afternoon and put everything in shape for 
the next day's w^ork. He had little to say to his 
wife, little to his children when he got home. 
There was no weeping, no promises. Next day 
he went to work, and next day, and the next. 
Meantime such prayers as pierce the clouds were 
being offered for him by those who loved him 

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best. On the last Sunday of October he and 
Mary walked up the quiet road to Knockfeen 
chapel. They went early, for John wished to go 
to confession. He was some time in the "box"; 
and then came the Ego te ahsolvo from Father 
Tracey, with unction, one may be sure. Mary 
confessed too, and husband and wife knelt side 
by side when receiving Holy Communion. 

"John," Mary said quietly some days later, 
"it looks like the old life come back again. Praise 
be to God, and thanks to His Blessed Mother!" 

John held her in his arms and kissed her with 
tenderness. 

"Forgive the eight years, my true wife, and my 
heart'll be at rest!" 

For answer she kissed him again and again. 
Ever after John Kennedy loved and labored for 
his own. 



[159] 



THE SAD SUNDAY. 

IT was seven years since Maurice O'Connor left 
Ireland, and, after many wanderings, took a 
job as a plain cowboy on a Texas ranch. He 
might have found employment in a city more to 
the North and more to the East, where he would 
be nearer to the gray Atlantic, whose waves 
touched his native Ireland. But that would only 
awaken the deep longing, would only quicken the 
strange, slow pain that lies down in the heart 
when one has the yearning for home. So he 
moved out West, and then down South, and 
sought oblivion on wide, imfenced acres, among 
wandering cattle, under a high sky and a blazing 
sun. 

Maurice O'Connor and Terence O'Donnell — 
or "Terr," as he was familiarly called — were the 
two best friends in all Co. Limerick. They hunted 
hares of a Sunda}'' or fished in the Deel; they 
went swimming in summer and drove to the 
races in early autumn; threw "maggie" sticks 
at the "pathern," and helped each other cutting 
the hay or drawing home the turf or the seaweed. 
'Twas Maurice and Terr, and Terr and Maurice, 
spring, summer, autum^n, and winter. By the 

[ i6o] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

same token, each boy had a grown sister — Kathel 
O'Connor and AHce O'Donnell, — who were great 
friends, too. They went to Mass together, and 
to confession the same Saturday, and to the 
"raiUng" the same Sunday. They walked to 
the dance at Curaheen; they dressed ahke, were 
about the same height, and never had a hard 
word with each other in all their lives. 

"Sure, there'll be a double wedding when the 
time comes at O'Donnells' and O'Connors'," 
Johnny Mangan said knowingly to the boys one 
Sunday at the chapel gate before Mass. 

"Faix, I hope so," Tade Clancy added; "for 
they're two as dacent boys and two as fine girls 
as any in Ireland." 

So the talk went around about a double match 
and a "great time entirely" when next Shrove 
would come; or, if not the next, then surely the 
one after. But 'tis a strange world, and you can 
never tell what may happen from one day to the 
next. Anyhow, the wedding was not that Shrove 
nor the Shrove after. 

One Sunday, after the last Mass, Maurice and 
Terr took their guns and sauntered over to the 
Curaheen bogs to shoot ducks. The rain of the 
early day had ceased, but the water still clung 
to the whitethorn hedges and fell with a swish 
when the wind shook the branches. The damp 
grass wet the shoes of the hunters, and the 
**thraneens" made their trousers, from the knees 
down, look as if they had been pulled out of the 
river. 

[ 161I 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"Wisha, Terr," warned Mrs. O'Donnell with 
solicitude when her boy was starting out, "be 
careful and don't get your feet wet crossing the 
fields." 

"I'll be careful, mother," Terr answered, as 
he swung his gun on his shoulder. 

"Yes, alanna!" the good woman added by way 
of commendation and affection. 

But when the two boys got together, and took 
long strides across meadows, and jumped over 
ditches, and went up hills and down hollows, 
they never thought at all about wind, wet, or 
weather. It is one of the joys of the young who 
live in the country to have good health as a 
matter of course, and to be no more conscious of 
it than one is of the march of time in pleasant 
compan)^. So when the boys reached the bog 
their heads were full of wild ducks, and 'twas 
small blame to them that they forgot a trifling 
admonition about damp grass and wet feet. 

About three o'clock in the afternoon Terr was 
hiding behind a clump of rushes, waiting for a 
couple of ducks that were flying low in his direction. 
Right behind the rushes a bird arose with a whir 
of wings. Maurice, who was some short distance 
farther back, fired. The shot went through the 
rushes and O'Connor saw his comrade fall over 
on his face. 

"God in heaven!" he cried as he rushed to him. 
"O Terr, for the love o' God, speak! Only say 
I haven't killed you!" He turned the companion 
of a lifetime over on his back. "O Terr, Terr, 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

can't you say you're alive? Won't you look at 
me? Won't you say one word?" 

vSlowly the fallen man opened his eyes. 

" 'Tis here, Maurice, — 'tis here!" He placed 
a languid hand on his breast. 

Crazed with fright and anguish, O'Connor tore 
open the waistcoat, and there was the white shirt 
soaked with blood. The scattered shot had 
entered breast and stomach. 

"O God! O God!" moaned poor Maurice, 
helpless and distracted. 

"Maurice, I'm goin' — I — I — my — breath — I — " 

Then O'Connor held up the tossing head 
between his hands. The breath came easier now. 

"Maurice, 'twas no fault of yours!" 

"O Terr, for the love o' God, live! For the—" 

"I'm — goin' — 'tis catchin' at me — here! O my 
God — I am sorry — for all — my sins! Have — 
mercy on — me!" 

Across the fields ran a crazed man, telling the 
neighbors to hurry to the bog. And at the bog, 
below a clump of rushes, a young man was 
stretched on his back. The red blood of his strong, 
graceful body was on the white shirt he had put 
on that morning. His left hand was extended 
limp on the grass, his right on his breast where 
the blood was. The rushes, bending toward him, 
waved gently; the green fields over which he had 
so often wandered were around him; the sky, 
save where the white clouds still lingered, was the 
blue of hope; his face, white and very still, was 
turned toward the sky. 

[ 163 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Those were long and terrible days for Maurice 
O'Connor. To see the friend of all his years 
stretched dead on the field, and then on the bed, — 
it was a sight that lived with him for long, long 
years. And, then, there was the mother, who 
never, in all her anguish, uttered a word of 
reproach. 

"Sure, Maurice asthore, 'tisn't you would hurt 
a hair on the head of man, woman, or child, let 
alone Terr, who was like a brother to you." 

Then Alice consoled him, though her own heart 
was breaking and her eyes red from weeping. 

"Maurice, 'tis hard, I know; but God knows 
best. We must all try to bear it as He wishes, for 
'tis His will." 

The funeral was over; the days grew to weeks, 
the weeks to months. But Maurice O'Connor 
lost his hold on the life around him. He was 
silent, gloomy, and he had terrible dreams. One 
doctor said this and another that; one prescribed 
one kind of medicine, another prescribed another 
kind. A year went by, and people began to fear 
for the young man's mind. 

One Saturday when he was at Knockfeen to 
confession. Father Tracey walked up and down 
the chapel yard with him for a short time. 

"Maurice, you're not getting better at all, — 
I can see that." 

"No, Father. I'm never goin' to be well again. 
My heart is broken." 

"Whist!" commanded Father Tracey. 

"Father, 'tis the truth I'm tellin'!" 

[164] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"1 told you to whist, poor boy. Listen to me 
now." 

Maurice listened. 

"I want you to start off for America just as 
soon as you get ready; see that great country 
and its strange ways. Don't mope around here 
any longer. Get away; live for yourself and for 
your own; and for her, and for him that is gone. 
Maybe in two or in five or in six years you'll get 
settled and be your own self. Then come back 
and take Alice; she'll be waiting for you." 

Father Tracey smiled in his quiet way. Maurice 
promised and obeyed. 

Pleasure did not help him to forget; for he 
was too well schooled in his Faith to taste of the 
joys which, they tell us, bring a mist over memory. 
But hard work on the ranch — rounding up the 
cattle all day on the saddle, and branding them, 
and driving them across wide acres, — all this 
brought calmer thoughts by day, and a dreamless 
sleep by night. The men with whom he lived 
were different from the men he had known, — 
rough, irreverent, hot-tempered, ready to "drop" 
a man with a six-shooter on slight provocation. 
They were not the kindly, bid-you-the-time-o'- 
the-day men whom he had known and lived with 
in Ireland. For all that, the Texas cowboy has 
a kindly heart; and, as Maurice minded his 
business and never made trouble for anybody, 
he got on as well as he could wish. 

Halsey Tucker was a lad on the ranch he had 
grown to like. Tucker was a Catholic, who, in 

[165] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

spite of temptation and bad example and the 
thousand wiles that lure a man from the strait 
and narrow way, looked neither to the right 
nor to the left, but walked the road of faith and 
honor. Maurice and Tucker became genuine 
friends. It was not the old friendship which had 
bound him to the dead Terr O'Donnell. A fatherly 
interest in the lad, who grew as good and clean 
and true as a flower in the desert, was the feeling 
that drew Maurice to him. Many a Sunday 
they both rode over the prairies to a little church, 
where the priest said Mass every month. Then 
before Mass they had a "round up," which was 
young Tucker's word for confession; and after- 
ward received Holy Communion. 

And now Maurice was going home. The old 
mad pain and the wild dreams were all gone, 
and only tender memories filled up the hollows 
of his heart. He was at the little station some 
twenty miles from the ranch, waiting for the 
night train from San Antonio on its way to St. 
Louis. Young Tucker was with him to see him 
off. 

"I'm sorry to see you leavin'," said the young 
Texan, aiming with his whip at a cinder on the 
platform. 

"Well, Tuck, I'm sorry too. I'm leaving you, 
for one thing, and that's hard." 

"Ha'd! I should say so! Heah am I all 'lone 
now, with no one to caah for me in this heah 
ranch. I tell you 'taint so easy to be on the 
squaah all the time!" 

[i66] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"But you will, — won't you, Tuck?" 

"I reckon so. I'll be bettah all my life for 
knowin' you. I ain't goin' to stay heah. I'm 
goin' back to Houston." 

"Good, Tuck! You'll be better off there. And 
you'll go to church?" 

"I should say so!'' 

"And to round up?" 

"Well, I reckon I will!" 

Then the train puffed over the prairie toward 
the station. 

"Good-bye, Tuck, and God keep you!" 

Maurice held the lad in his arms for a moment. 
Out of the Southern eyes, as blue as the Southern 
skies, the tears came and flowed softly down the 
young face. 

"I'll think of you, Tuck. Do write!" 

"I'll" (then a great sob),— "I'll suah be lone- 
some for you." 

"I'll write to you often, Tuck. Good-bye, — 
good-bye!" 

Maurice O'Connor looked through the window 
of the Pullman sleeper, watching the vanishing 
fields and the Negro shanties, and here and there 
an odd ranch house. Halsey Tucker was still 
standing at the station, with folded arms, watching 
the smoke fade on the wake of the now unseen 
train. 

"He was suah one good man; and now he's 
goin' back to that green Ireland of his. Reckon 
I'll start for Houston to-morrow." 

The rest is soon told. Maurice and Alice 

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O'Donnell were married the following Shrove, 
and his sister Kathel lived with her mother. 
Then in a few years the mother died, and Maurice 
and Alice insisted that Kathel come to them. 
The children always called her "Auntie," and 
hung around her morning, noon and night. She 
loved them all, but little Terr was her favorite. 

"I suppose you won't ever marry, Kathel?" 
Father Tracey asked her one day, with the 
freedom which his position justified. 

"No, Father: I'll remain single." 

"And you don't feel drawn to the convent?" 

She shook her head. 

"Maybe you're wise, child! Maybe 'tis God's 
will in your regard. He leads us in wondrous ways, 
and in the end to heaven. ' In My Father's house 
there are many mansions.'" 



[ i68] 



HOW THE CURSE WAS LIFTED. 

THE Creegans were the richest people in oiir 
parish, — as rich beyond all the other families 
as the highest peak of the Galties is above the 
lesser peaks that cluster at its base. They were 
simple people for all that, without any affectations. 
The boys never wore brown leather leggings nor 
topcoats; they never rode after the hunt, nor 
blew the dust into your eyes speeding by on 
sidecars. The girls — three of them — never went 
to France for the winter, nor to Kilkee for the 
summer. They gave no balls or parties when they 
became of age. In fact, the Creegans were very 
much like the rest of the parish, except the 
Hartigans, who were "out-and-out grandees 
entirely." 

For all their goodness and kindness and simple 
w^ays, the Creegans never seemed to have luck. 
One of the boys was lame; John, the second son, 
had spinal trouble, so that he could never stand 
up straight like a healthy man; Margaret was 
bedridden; and Catherine, the second sister, 
was a w^ee bit of a creature, that stopped growing 
when she was ten years of age. She and Mrs. 
Walsh of Grageen were the two saints of the 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

parish, who made the Stations and always said 
"two rounds of the Beads" every Sunday before 
first Mass. 

Well, the reason the Creegans never had luck 
was due to the "blood money" which was in the 
family. In the days of the Fenians, a great-great- 
grandfather of the present head of the house 
betrayed a couple of the "boys" who were hiding 
from the "peelers," for which he received a good 
sum of money by way of reward. Thereafter, 
"blood money" was in the family. Usually 
people thus tainted are left to themselves. The 
neighbors do not visit them, nor ever borrow a 
spade or a pitchfork of them; nor do they lean 
over the half -door and say, "God bless all here!" 
when passing by the house in the morning. 

But it was different with the Creegans. They 
were honest people, who would not take a sloe 
out of a bush that did not belong to them — 
except the man that took the money long ago, 
and they could not help that, after all. So every- 
body had a kindly feeling toward the Creegans; 
and the boys dropped in of an evening sometimes, 
and the neighbors gave them a "lift" when making 
the turf or threshing the oats. And everybody 
kept hoping that the curse would soon be lifted, 
and that the next generation would not have to 
suffer for the wrongdoing of a long-dead ancestor. 

There was good foundation for the hope too; 
for the third son, Maurice, the only healthy one, 
was in his second year at Maynooth and would 
soon be "priested." There was no doubt at all 

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but that a priest in the family would "lift the 
curse." 

When he came home every summer, Maurice 
went to early Mass and received Holy Communion. 
He wore a black suit, and, except for the lack of 
the tall hat, you would take him for a priest 
anywhere. He was a thin man, with hands like 
a lady's and a face as smooth as a boy's. He 
was always accompanied to the chapel by two 
of his sisters, w^ho clung to him tenderly because 
they loved him with a real love, and because he 
would soon be a priest of God and an honor to 
the family. 

The boys of the parish were out at the chapel 
gate one Sunday in summer, waiting for the "last" 
bell to ring. By the same token, many a time 
Father Tracey ordered them in to say a few extra 
prayers before Mass. They went in for a Sunday 
or two; then there was a notice on the chapel 
gate about an auction or a meeting, or sports 
up at Ballingarry. Mick Sheahan stopped to 
read it, and the others gathered around. When 
they were done reading, they began talking, and 
so they fell again into the old rut. 

"I see Mr. Creegan is back for his vacation," 
commented Jack Hogan. 

"So he is. He spoke to me yesterday as I was 
coming hether from Madigans' forge," Jim Don- 
nelly agreed, taking a "shock o' the pipe" in the 
few minutes that remained. 

"He's a lovely man and as gintle as a lady." 

"He is that, Johnny Mangan; an' I hope God 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

will give him good health to finish, for he does be 
very frail-lookin'." 

It was Mick Sheahan who spoke, leaning against 
the gate pier. 

In the chapel Maurice and his sisters were 
kneeling at the railing. Catherine was praying 
before Our Lady's altar, asking the Blessed Mother 
to keep Maurice well through the long, difficult, 
searching years of the Maynooth course. No 
doubt, Mary, the youngest daughter, was making 
a like petition from where she knelt before the 
main altar. 

During the weekdays Maurice was accustomed 
to go down among the boys in the hayfields or at 
banking the potato drills or at cutting the oats. 
Brought up in the fields and among the men of 
the fields, he never sought other scenery or other 
society. When Dick Fitz, forgetting himself, 
cursed old "Bill," the gray horse, because "Bill" 
did not "whoa" when ordered, Maurice seemed 
only to notice Dick's embarrassment. He liked 
to hear Tade Clancy tell stories, especially when 
Jim Donnelly was present to contradict. He 
would follow for hours the mowers, their bodies 
swaying right and left, leaving great rows of hay 
in their wake. 

Sometimes he took three or four schoolboys 
back to the Deel for a day's fishing; and while 
they talked among themselves and waited anxiously 
for a bite, he watched the gliding waters and 
began to dream. He lived over again the day when 
for the first time he took the train at the little 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

station and went away to Dublin. The years were 
long and uneventful since then. College life and 
the changeless round of classes, and a discipline 
that held him close within walls, had little charm 
for him. He went through it as one goes through 
a disagreeable journey to a desired place. It 
was prosy and monotonous, and— well, he was 
glad college was over; and he would be glad, 
too, when he could say "Good-bye!" to the 
theological seminary at Maynooth. He liked the 
free air and the soft grass and the murmuring 
streams, and the care-free life of Knockfeen parish. 
It was his home, and he never found that college 
or seminary life could fill up the void when he 
was away from the places and people he knew 
and loved. 

Maurice Creegan was in his last year of theology ; 
and at the end of the school year he would be 
"priested," as the people put it. After that 
he might be lent out for a couple of years to one 
of the English dioceses where priests are scarce. 
The wait till a young priest becomes a parish 
priest is long, very long, in Ireland. But the 
Creegans wanted to see Maurice ordained, and 
gave no thought at all to promotion. Just to see 
him a priest, so he would bless them and remove 
the curse, was the desire of their hearts. 

About mid-May of that last year — with ordina- 
tion a little more than a month away — a boy 
went down across the fields from Knockfeen 
station, bearing a blue envelope in his hand. He 
was the station-master's son, carrying a telegram 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

to the Creegans. A telegram to the country 
districts in Ireland means, as a rule, bad news 
of some kind. Business among the people is not 
of so hurried or complex a character as to be 
transacted over the wires. When, once in a year 
or so, the station-master's son bore a message to 
a family, one wondered who was dying or dead. 
And when Catherine Creegan saw the boy coming 
across the field to the front of the house, she sat 
back in a chair from sheer Y/eakness and exclaimed : 
"My God, something is wrong with Maurice!" 
The boy handed her the envelope, and, lifting 
his cap respectfully, walked aw^ay quickly, as he 
had been instructed to do by his father, who 
well knew people do not desire witnesses during 
the first moments of a crushing sorrow. Catherine 
broke open the seal and read: 

Maurice Creegan, Esq., 
Cronagh, Knockfeen, 
Co. Limerick. 
Your son had hemorrhage this morning. Condition 
critical but not hopeless. Come. 

The message was sent by the president of the 
seminary. 

Strange to say, the only comment that passed 
the girl's lips was: 

"I felt it, — I felt it was coming always. We 
are not worthy. We must suffer yet." 

Maurice died at two o'clock that afternoon, while 
the father was on his way to Dublin. When he 
reached Maynooth, it was to find the hope of the 
family white and very still in one of the infirmary 

[174] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

rooms. Next day the coffin was taken out of the 
van at Knockfeen station, and one of the largest 
gatherings of people ever seen there met the 
remains. They came in such great numbers to 
show their sympathy that the boy did not live 
to be "priested," so that the curse might be lifted. 

After the funeral, they chatted here and there 
among themselves by the fireside or when out 
working in the gardens. 

One said: 

"By gor, 'tis hard, after all, the poor boy wasn't 
'priested,' and that he's now lyin' in the 
churchyard." 

" 'Tis, — indeed 'tis. Sure everyone was hopin' 
an' prayin' he'd live an' finish, and so lift the curse 
that hangs over thim." 

Father Tracey heard of this gossip, and spoke 
about it from the altar. 

"You talk about a priest being ordained as 
the only way of lifting a curse from a family, if 
curse there be. But God can work His will in 
many ways; for His arm is not shortened, and 
He can do what He wishes in His own blessed 
time. Therefore, let us stop talking and gossiping 
among ourselves about works that are divine, and 
therefore far beyond us. The Lord gave, the Lord 
took away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!" 

They all knew what was meant, and kept 
silent ever after. 

There is a new generation of Creegans now. 
The youngest boy, who used to be afflicted with 
strange attacks of melancholy, got well gradually 

[175] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

and then married a girl from Adare. Their five 
children are strong and hearty-looking, and fill 
the house with the music of their laughter. Mar- 
garet, the invalid sister, and Catherine who never 
grew to full womanhood, are living with their 
brother, and find their joy with the children. 
John, who had spinal trouble, died in Limerick 
hospital; and the lame boy has some position 
with the Government in Dublin. The father and 
mother are both "gone home." 

"The Creegans were always good, dacent 
people," said Tade Clancy, "only for that ould 
lad o' thim that took the money long ago." 

"They were, — indeed, they were," added John 
Conway. "I was sorry whin the boy died that 
time, an' he so near bein' 'priested.' But 'twas 
God's will, an' the curse is lifted anyway, now." 

"Yes," added Tade; "an' it was as Father 
Tracey said at the chapel during Mass, ' God can 
work as He will.' Maybe 'twas to reward thim 
for their resignation and patience, and to com- 
pinsate them for their sorrow, that He lifted the 
curse whin Maurice — peace to him! — wint away." 



[ 176 ] 



THE TRUE LOVE OF MAGGIE MAY. 

SHE was the lone sister of six brothers, but 
for all that Maggie May Conway was not a 
spoiled girl. To be sure, she was her father's 
"pet" and her mother's "treasure" and the idol 
of those six boys. But, in spite of the praising 
and petting and idolizing, Maggie May was the 
gentlest girl in Co. Limerick. Her father. Dr. 
John Conway, was the physician of Knockfeen 
village, with a practice that took him into the 
country for miles around. He was a good family 
doctor, disposed to be cheerful and sympathetic 
with his patients. He was especially kind to the 
poor, following out the maxim which Father 
Tracey had given him years before: "What a 
man gives to the poor will come back double." 
Maggie May was nearly twenty-one, "tall and 
well-proportioned," as the people about put it. 
Her rich growth of hair was gold colored, and, as 
one of the Celtic bards said of a lady of his time, 
"every strand was a ray borrowed from the 
sun." Her features were long, her eyes mild and 
full of expression. Indeed, if you saw her in the 
still of a summer morning, as she walked down the 
village to Mass, you would say she was the most 
beautiful girl you ever laid your eyes on. 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Hers was not merely a physical beauty, however, 
which will spoil a girl who has not the good sense 
to keep her feet on the ground. Maggie May 
had a ripe mind. She had been going to school 
to the nuns ever since she was able to walk; and 
then she went to Newtownbarry, Co. Wexford, 
for an advanced course in the convent there. She 
could talk with her father about the Celtic move- 
ment in literature, and often had the better of 
the argument, though she rarely pressed her 
victory. 

When Dan Donovan started a draper's shop 
at Knockfeen and began life for himself, there 
were many who shook their heads at the ''foolish 
venture." First of all, he had left a good position 
in Dublin, — that is, good as positions go in 
Ireland. In the second place, he was a stranger 
to Knockfeen, having been born at the east side 
of the county. But a travelling man told him 
a shop was needed there; and Dan went, secured 
a place, and began business. You may be sure 
the days came and went slowly enough at first; 
for the people were not anxious to change from 
old to new ways. No doubt he was a good young 
man, who made fine promises; but the new 
broom always sweeps well. And many a night 
Dan went to bed in the little room above his 
shop with a tired and sorry heart, and many a 
morning he woke with no new hope for the new 
day. 

Often and often Maggie May went by the shop 
on little business trips to Athery. Five or six 

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times she saw Dan standing solitary as a signpost 
at his door. He looked well, too, with his thought- 
ful face, and with a stature as tall and as brave 
as the son of the Fenian mother described in the 
song. Maggie May inquired about the stranger, 
heard his story, and pitied. 

"Poor young man, all alone in the village, and 
not one of us lifting a hand to help him! 'Tis 
shameful, so it is!" 

So next day she went to the shop, bought 
presents for her father and the boys — handker- 
chiefs, neckties, collars, and what not — till they 
thought the girl was taking leave of her senses 
entirely. Then she had a good word to say to this 
one and that about the new shop and the fine 
young man who was behind the counter. The 
people went, reluctantly at first, out of friendship 
for Maggie May; more willingly later on, because 
the shop was well supplied with the latest and 
best, and because the handsome young man was 
kind and obliging. 

One day when Maggie May was coming back 
from her walk she stepped in to buy a new pair 
of kid gloves for her mother. Now, her mother 
did not need gloves at all, but the young lady 
felt she had a duty to perform to the lonely draper. 

"What size did you say, Miss Conway?" 

"O yes, the size! I haven't thought of that. 
Now, let me see!" She frowned, trying to 
remember. "How stupid I am not to know the 
size of my own mother's gloves!" she said, with 
confusion. 

[179] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Donovan came to the rescue with a timely 
suggestion. 

"Now, Miss Conway, unless 'tis very urgent, 
you could call in later on, and meantime 5^ou 
could find out the size." 

"Yes, that will be best, Mr. Donovan." 

She was about to leave, when Donovan made 
a little speech which he had been intending to 
make for some time. 

' ' Miss Conway, before you go I want to thank 
you as much as ever I can for the great kindness 
you have shown me in coming yourself and 
getting the people to come to my little shop. 
You see, I am just starting; I haven't much yet, 
but I hope to get on better as the months go 
by. Just now you have been a very good friend 
when I need friends most, and I hope — I hope — 
God will bless you for it." 

"Now, Mr. Donovan, I knew you had a good 
shop, so I came here myself, and got my friends 
to come too. That's all. You have held them 
all by courteous attention." 

The months went by, and Dan Donovan 
prospered even as he deserved. Always he re- 
membered the pure young face of Maggie May 
that first brightened his shop and brought luck 
ever after, and always he was strangely glad at 
the thought. Many times they met and chatted, 
and their acquaintanceship quickened into friend- 
ship. What wonder is it that in these two young 
hearts friendship ripened into love? And that v/as 
what caused all the trouble. 

[i8o] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Dr. John Conway was a good man, — let no 
one doubt that. But many a good man has a 
weakness, and Conway had his. He was an 
Irishman with an ambition for an Anglo-Celtic 
alliance. To put it concrete^, he wished his 
Maggie May to marry a Major Sterwood, of the 
"Queen's Own." He had met the Major several 
times in Limerick at the home of Dr. Breenly, 
who was a lifetime friend of his. This Major 
Sterwood was a relative of Dr. Breenly, and of 
course crossed the Channel two or three times a 
year to visit him and his family. On two or three 
occasions Dr. Conway took Maggie May with 
him to visit at the Breenlys', where she met the 
Major; and, naturally, there was "big talk and 
ado" about a future match. To make a long story 
short, the Breenlys were the means of opening 
negotiations for a marriage alliance between the 
Celtic house of John Conway, M. D., and the 
Anglo-Norman house of Major Sterwood, of the 
"Queen's Own." 

The Major was not an Irishman, nor was he a 
Catholic. However, Sterwood was a good enough 
name, and he a good enough man for any woman, 
thought John Conway. In addition to his good 
name, he stood high in army circles. To be sure, 
he was a member of the Church of England; 
but, as they were to be married across the Channel, 
a dispensation could be easily secured, and Maggie 
May would be as happy as the day is long. That 
was how John Conway reasoned ; and, to tell 
the truth, his wife shared his views. Not that her 

[i8i] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

heart was so set on the match; but a chance Hke 
that does not come every new moon. 

Early in December came the solemn night 
when Maggie May was to be informed by her 
father of her coming marriage to Major Sterwood. 
The fire in the grate cast a cheerful glow on the 
carpet of the sitting-room, and danced fitfully 
on the glass hangings of the chandelier. The clock 
on the mantelpiece beat back and forth the 
march of the moments, while the old grey-and- 
white cat purred contentedly in a plush-covered 
chair. By accident or by design — it is not so 
important either way, — both parents were alone 
with their daughter that winter evening. The 
father was evidently nervous, as most honest 
men are when they have something to propose 
which needs diplomacy to hide its unpleasant 
features. 

"Daughter," said the Doctor, clearing his 
throat — he always said "daughter" on solemn 
occasions, — "we have something very important 
to tell you to-night. You are now nearing twenty- 
one years complete, coming June tenth. You have 
always been a good, dutiful daughter, the light 
and comfort of your mother and myself. Of 
course we should like to keep you always, to 
brighten the house, especially when we are grown 
old; for we shall have to depend upon somebody 
else then to take care of us. But that would not 
be fair to you. So, after thinking it over ourselves, 
and talking it over with our closest friends, we 
have decided to arrange a match between you 

[182] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

and Major Sterwood, the cousin of the Breenlys. 
In fact, we have already broached the matter; 
and the Major — fine gentleman that he is — has 
shown himself well disposed and well pleased. 
I feel the time has come to let you know our 
wishes, and what we have done in your behalf." 

The Doctor felt he had said just what he in- 
tended, and had said it well. There was a profound 
silence. And a profound silence may be the highest 
tribute of appreciation or the most crushing form 
of disapproval. 

"And now, daughter, w^e are waiting for a 
word from you," ventured the Doctor, when the 
long pause had grown painful. 

"And what should I say, father?" she asked, 
her eyes watching the blaze that rose and fell 
behind the grate. 

"'vSay'! Why, that's a strange way to put it, 
daughter. Surely, you can say how thankful 
you are, and how happy and how fortunate." 

There was a note of ill-humor in the Doctor's 
voice. 

"Father, I can not be thankful for that which 
I do not consider a gift; I can not be happy for 
what I know would bring me only misery all 
my years; and I can not call myself fortunate 
for that which would bring me only misfortune." 

"That is unusual language to your father and 
mother, my girl. You don't know how long and 
how hard we have worked to bring this match 
about." 

"Father, I wish you hadn't, — I wish you had 

13 [183] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

left that Englishman to go his own ways." Maggie 
May's eyes glistened with the tears that were 
ready to break their barriers. 

"Daughter," said Dr. Conway, in a tone that 
always meant the last word to his children, "we 
have set our hearts on this match." 

"And, father," answered the girl, "I have set 
my heart against this match." The glistening 
tears were all dried up in the blaze of her eyes. 

"My God, is she mad, — is the girl mad to use 
such language? Am I doting or do I hear the 
truth?" 

"Father, listen one moment." 

"No! Av\ray with you, you impudent hussy! 
How dare you — be off!" 

"John," interposed Mrs. Conway, "let her 
speak. The child should be heard." 

Dr. Conway did not say "Yes" and he did 
not say "No." 

All traces of anger gone, Maggie May began: 

"Father, and you mother, you have always 
been good to me, — very, very good. You have 
given me v/hatever my heart wanted, and more. 
You have never asked me for anything; though 
often I wished you would, so that I could show 
you I had a love for you in return. Now you 
come at last and ask me to give the heart in me 
to some one else. I wish I could give it, for your 
sakes; but I am not free. Let me say it as truly 
as the heart beats in me, I can never marry this 
Englishman." 

"Go to your room!" exclaimed the Doctor. 

[184] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

She was gone in an instant, and the door closed 
behind her. 

In her room there was an exquisite little statue 
of the Immaculate Conception, the crushed serpent 
beneath the feet, the blue girdle gathering in the 
white robes. Before it knelt Maggie May, and 
prayed long and tenderly to the Virgin Mother; 
while abroad, the vast sky was lighted with the 
trembling stars. 

Dr. Conway and his wife held conference far 
into the night. The conclusion was inevitable. 
It is always so in Ireland. Father Tracey was to be 
brought into consultation ; he was to be acquainted 
with the proposed alliance; he was to advise, 
and then win over the wilful, foolish heart of 
Maggie May. 

The consultation took place next day; and 
Father Tracey listened to the long narrative of 
eulogy for the Major, his position, possibilities, 
and what not. 

"And now. Father Tracey, what do you think?" 
asked Dr. Conway, when he had finished. 

"I don't know what to think. Sometimes if 
we'd think less and pray more, the paths we 
plan would be straighter and smoother." 

"Well, Father, we have set our hearts on this 
match, and you must see Maggie May and get 
her to be reasonable." 

"Listen to me, John Conway. We are wise 
in our ways, and we plot and figure, but God 
doesn't always figure with us. I know your 
Maggie May; I have seen her grow from a child 

[1851 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

up. Her heart is white, — just as white as the lily. 
But the lily is easily crushed till the life dies out 
of it, and it never grows again. I'll speak to 
Maggie May, John; but I will not crush the love 
out of her young heart, if I think the Lord God 
put it there." 

That evening, when Maggie May, in answer 
to his invitation, entered his little sitting-room, 
Father Tracey was just finishing his Ofhce. 

"Just wait now a minute, child," he said, as 
he fingered the pages looking for an antiphon. 
"And now, Maggie May, I have something to 
say to you," declared the priest, when he had put 
aside his Breviary. Presently they were discussing 
the proposed alliance. "Tell me, what is there 
about this English Major that makes you turn 
against him?" 

"Father, no doubt Major Sterwood is as good 
as they say he is. I hope so, for it will be all the 
more to his credit. But how can that concern 
me? I have never had the least desire to marry 
an. Englishman and leave my own country." 

"But perhaps you would grow to like this — 
this Englishman after a while?" 

"No, Father. A girl has one heart to give, and 
after it is given she should never take it back 
and give it to another." 

"To another?" 

"Yes, Father, to another." 

"I see, — I see! So somebody else has first 
claim to Maggie May ! Well, well! " (Father Tracey 
was silent for a while.) "And is he one of our own 
people, child?" [ i86 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"Indeed he is, Father, and worth more than a 
whole army of English officers." 

"You don't tell me! And who is he?" 

"Mr. Donovan." 

"The draper upstreet?" 

"Yes, Father." 

"Well, I declare!" 

The priest looked fixedly at the well-worn 
carpet of the sitting-room, and was lost in the 
mazes of his reflections. When he came back to 
the open, Maggie May was still waiting. 

"Child, this Donovan is here only seven or 
eight months, and he's not rich and has no pre- 
tensions. Your father will be in a fine temper 
when he hears it, and many a day will gojby 
before he consents." 

"Father, I will wait." 

"I believe you will," said the priest, thought- 
fully. 

She left presently. 

Later on Father Tracey broke the news to Dr. 
Conway. He was an outraged man, you may 
be sure, and swore he would see the "hussy" 
dead before he would give his consent. 

"Don't say that, John," cautioned the priest. 

"Father, I am speaking simple truth: I'd see 
her dead before I'd consent to her marriage with 
that pauper." 

"God may take up your threat, John," said 
the priest, ' as he went sadly away. 

It was with a sense of crushed pride the Doctor 
broke off negotiations for an alliance with Major 

[187] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Sterwood. But you may be sure he was fully 
determined that if his family could not step up 
to the Major, it would not step down to Donovan. 

Life in the Conway house went on much as 
before. Maggie May was quieter, the Doctor was 
a trifle less demonstrative; but bevond that there 
was no perceptible change. 

Shortly after the Christmas holidays, two years 
later, Maggie May contracted a cold while visiting 
friends in Cork. In a week after her return she 
was in the clutches of pneumonia, and the death 
struggle was on. 

The best physicians in Limerick came, examined 
and prescribed. A renowned specialist was sum- 
moned from Dublin, and with him came hope. 
He examined and prescribed. But Maggie May 
was sinking fast. Her mother sat by the bedside 
all the day and far into the watches of the night; 
her father came often, lingered a moment and 
went sadly away. There were times when words 
came incoherently from the sick girl, and there 
were, times when she was strangely calm. In one 
of those calm moments she whispered to the 
nurse : 

"Father Tracey — I want to see him!" 

She had already received the last Sacraments 
and was prepared for the long journey. It was 
something else now. 

"Father," she whispered when the priest was 
alone in the room, "I would like to see him, — I 
would like him to come, so I could marry him 
as I promised." 

[i88l 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"And you still think of him? And you still 
love him?" asked the astonished priest. 

"Always, always!" she said, through her parched 
lips, as if she were saying a prayer. 

They were married that waning day in late 
January, with a pale sun breaking through a 
cloud in the blue above. They vowed their vows 
till Death should them part, and Death even then 
was trying to set them asunder. But Death did 
not conquer, for Love gives life. When Maggie 
May looked into the eyes of Dan Donovan, she 
whispered : 

"O Dan, Dan, I do not wish to die yet!" 

"And you shan't, my own! For God doesn't 
want you yet, and He won't put our lives asunder 
so soon." 

"May His will be done!" ejaculated Father 
Tracey. 

"Father, bless us both, and your blessing will 
keep us together," said the young man, kneeling 
down before the priest and holding the feverish 
hand of his young wife. 

"God bless and keep you together all the years, 
my children!" said the gentle priest, as he signed 
them with the Sign of the Cross. 

Some of the neighbors said it was Father Tracey' s 
blessing; a Limerick physician said it was a 
case of "reinforced vitality"; Moll Magee said 
"it was the sight of Dan Donovan himself — God 
bless him! — that kept the life in the girl." One 
can not be sure. Anyhow, Dan and Mrs. Donovan 

[189] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

were the loveliest couple that ever entered the 
dear old chapel of Knockfeen two months later, 
when they got back from their trip to the North 
of Ireland. 



[ 190] 



THE FALLING OF NIGHT. 

JOHN HARTIGAN died at the noon of a July 
day, when the air was still and dry and the 
sun hot. He left behind him a large family and a 
widow, — she that used to be Mary Cusack from 
back near Glen. The women came at three o'clock 
to lay out the corpse, and soon John was stretched 
upon the bed, his hands clasped over his breast, 
with the crucifix between them. His strong face 
was as white as ivory, his eyes closed, his lips 
pressed together. Mrs. Hartigan herself was as 
tearless as a stone; for the heart in her was 
broken, now that her husband was still and 
cold. The little children — the younger ones — 
went about the house, not knowing what had 
happened, and looking with large, wondering eyes 
at their dead father. 

The evening is coming now. The hills grow 
fainter, and the line of the horizon melts into the 
land. Nearby neighbors have caught the silence 
of the place of death, and the spirit of quiet 
extends to people more remote. The men in the 
hayfields, who could not stop work for fear the 
hay might be spoiled by a rain shower on the 
morrow, work fast but silently, gathering in the 
last cocks to finish off the "reek." Mike Donovan 
lifts a heavy forkful to John Hackett, who stands 

[1911 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

on the rung of the ladder which rests against 
the "reek." Hackett hfts it to another man 
farther up, who in turn pitches it to the man 
on top. Always their conversation is subdued; 
for the neighbors feel a deep sympathy, as the 
one taken is a "great loss." 

Little Johnny Hogan walks up the "boreen" 
for the cows, which are waiting near the gate 
of the high field to be driven home for the milking. 
The shepherd dog trots before him, unmindful 
of the birds that rise of a sudden from behind 
tufts of grass beside the lane. He reaches the 
gate of the high field, and if you were to stand 
beside him you could see the houses that lie in 
the wide valley below. They are whitewashed, 
and the roofs of many are newly thatched; for 
the thatcher made his circuit of the townland a 
few weeks before. In the rear lie "haggards," 
out of which many drills of early potatoes have 
been dug. You can see the bare places where 
the withered stalks are piled together, in sharp 
contrast to the green of the growing stalks not 
yet uprooted by the spade. Apple trees bend 
their scores of arms under the weight of the 
rapidly ripening fruit. The wheat fields lie in 
great ridges, which will turn to gold with the 
August sun. Under the oats the clover catches 
the night dew and grows apace. Out of many 
chimneys the smoke rises in graceful columns. 

Johnny opens the gate and the cows pass 
leisurely through, one by one. There is no need 
for the boy to run beside them, to turn them this 

[ 192 1 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

way or that: they know the way, and are anxious 
to get to the barn, where their full udders will 
be relieved of the milk. They form a great, un- 
broken procession as they follow one behind the 
other, their bodies swinging from side to side, 
their heads tossing, their tails, like whips, beating 
off the flies. One lows long and plaintively, and 
the echo comes back from a little body of water 
called Loughdee. Once within the barn, they 
stand quietly chewing the cud, while the foaming 
milk flows into the wooden buckets, which, when 
filled, are emptied into large cans, that in turn 
are carted to the dairy where the milk is "set" 
in wide, shallow pans. Usually there is talk and 
laughter and, here and there, a snatch of a song; 
but this evening the milkers speak softly out of 
respect for the dead man that lies in a sombre 
room lit up by two wax candles in the house of 
Mrs. Hartigan a couple of fields away. 

The m.en at the hay have almost finished their 
work. John Hackett is pulling on one of the 
hay-ropes that extend over the "reek" to keep 
it safe against the wind squalls that betimes 
blow across from the Atlantic. While John pulls, 
the man on top strikes the rope lightly with a 
hayfork to make it taut down the sides. He 
holds the prongs toward him, so that if the fork 
should slip from his hands, no great harm would 
come to the man below. When the ropes are made 
secure the men go around the "reek" with wooden 
rakes, smoothing it down and taking off the 
loose hay. The work is completed at last. 

! 193 1 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"By gor, Jim," Hackett says, lifting a fork 
and rake over his shoulder, "if it rains now itself, 
'twon't be any great harm." 

" 'Twon't, John,— 'twon't; but Bill Ahern 
hasn't reeked his ten-acre field yet, an' he wants 
the dry weather a little while." 

"Oh, I don't think 'tis goin' to rain anyway!" 
John added, looking up at the sky with keen 
eyes. 

And, truly, heaven carried no menace on its 
broad face that evening. Here and there a star 
began to peep, — the advanced-guard of the great 
army that very soon would encamp on the wide 
acres of the sky. The leaves on the maples were 
faintly stirred with the soft wind of the South. 
Not a single cloud floated anywhere above the 
earth, while all around was sweet with the smell 
of the garnered hay. 

"So poor Hartigan is dead, after all!" mused 
Mike Donovan, as he walked behind the other 
men, not paying any attention to Hackett's pro- 
nouncement about the weather. 

"Wisha poor John! An' he didn't last long." 
It was Tom Sullivan, the man that worked on 
top of the reek, who spoke. 

"Faix he didn't. Sure 'tis only a week ago, 
ere yesterday, he took sick. I was mowin' a little 
o' thim rushes," Donovan continued, walking 
more leisurely along the headland of the potato 
field, toward his house, "whin John walked by 
me on the path beside the bog. 'Good-day, 
John!' says I. — 'Good-day!' says he. 'An' God 

[ 194] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

bless your work!' — 'An' you too, John,' says I. 
'An' how are you?' — 'I'm not well at all, Mike. 
I have just been up to Dr. Conway about a pain 
I've been havin' in my side, an' about a reelin' 
I gets in my head after I've been workin' for a 
bit. An' Dr. Conway examined me an' told me 
to go home an' go to bed at once, an' that he'd 
be down later on in the day with medicines.' 
John left me an' went home, an' the first thing 
I knew was that he was down with a ragin' faver; 
an' next day he had the priest, an' a couple o' 
days more he was given over by priest an' doctor, 
an' to-night he's wakin'," 

"Yerra, life is so short anyhow, w^e're foolish 
to spind so much of our time puUin' an' draggin', 
whin in a few years we'll have to lave it all behind 
us," said John Hackett, as he changed fork and 
rake from one shoulder to the other. 

"That's all very fine talk, John," replied Tom 
Sullivan; "but a man has to pull an' drag an' 
make a livin'. Sure, 'tisn't the likes of us would 
go 'round the country with a sack on our backs 
beggin'. We must live an' work, an' save a little 
for our childer whin the rainy day comes." 

"Sure I know that myself. I'm only sayin' we 
mustn't think that workin' an' gettin' together 
a little money is the only thing." 

Probably Sullivan would have found some way 
to take exception to Hackett's final admission 
even, but they were already before the door of 
the house, where Mrs. Donovan announced: 
"Supper is ready!" 

[ 195 1 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Back on the white road, the rattle of cars, 
returning from the market of Ardee, comes f ainth^ ; 
a dog barks from the yard of a neighboring house 
at a passing stranger; a cow, her head above the 
gate, lows plaintively. The milkers have now 
finished their work; the milk is set, and the 
dairy door is closed for the night. The moist 
dew is on the grass and on the unripe ears of 
wheat, and on the unraked hay still spread out 
upon the meadow. 

Down at the house of the dead, people speak 
in whispers as they come and go. From the 
yard before the house you can see into the room 
where the body is laid out; for the window is 
open to admit the cooling air. The two candles 
on the table, with the crucifix between them, 
burn with a steady flame for a little, then flicker 
slowly as they catch the cool breath of the night. 
Below the crucifix there is a glass of holy water, 
in which is placed a sprig of fir, with which those 
who come sprinkle the corpse. The face of the 
dead Hartigan is as white as the white sheets 
that cover the bed. How ghostly, how unlike the 
sights to which one is accustomed, — the face of 
the dead, under the flickering light of candles, 
as seen through the window from the yard! 

In the still night, faintly outlined forms are 
seen coming from different directions, not talking 
loudly nor laughing, nor whistling the turn of 
a reel, nor lilting a stave of a song. For Hartigan 
was a young man taken away shortly after the 
midday of life, with promise of a calm, peaceful 

[196] 



ROUND ABOUT HOA^h 

evening unfulfilled. His children are young and 
helpless, and his wife has a hard life ahead of her. 

A group of men are standing, their elbows resting 
on the stone "ditch" some short distance from 
Hartigan's house. The night is rather early yet; 
the air is fresh, and a quiet smoke in the open 
is inviting. Tade Clancy is among the number, 
and already he is peopling the fields with spirits. 

"Wisha, bo3^s, do ye remimber ould Crockett 
that used to keep the hounds?" 

"We do so." 

"Ye do of course, seein' he's dead only fifteen 
years. But did ye ever hear what happened at 
his funeral?" 

Most of them had not heard, or said so at least; 
for they liked Tade's stories. 

"Well, I'll tell it to ye so." And Tade began: 
"Now, ould Crockett was the divil after the 
the hounds, an' the divil entirely after the rints. 
One year whin the crops were poor an' the people 
sufferin', they asked him to take half for that 
year, an' wait till the times got better. But not 
a bit of him would do it. 'Pay,' says he, 'or get 
out.' His tinnents, as ye know, were all in the 
parish of Ballyadam, an' the parish priest was 
a young man — Father Halpin, since dead, God 
rest him! — an' a great Irishman. An' whin he 
heard what Crockett said to his tinnents he spoke 
from the altar, an' says he : ' Do ye stop him from 
huntin' in yer lands, because Crockett an' every 
other landlord is huntin' by the sufferance of the 
people.' An' Crockett heard it, an' wint to see 

[ 197] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

the priest. ' Is what I hear true' ? says he. — ' 'Tis, 
an' double true,' says Father Halpin. — 'Thin 
take that!' says he, hittin' the priest across the 
face with his whip, the black scoundrel! Father 
Halpin was a tall, strong man who could have 
pitched Crockett over the ditch with his one 
hand. But he didn't lay a fmger on him, only 
said, solemn-like, just before he wint back into 
the house: 'The dogs you hunt with will want 
to get you before long.' That was all the word 
he spoke, an' wint through the door. 

"About a year after Crockett took sick with 
pneumony, and died in a week. An' after four 
days of mournin' they decided to bury him with 
a grand funeral. One of the honors was to have 
his hounds go behind the hearse. So, by gor, on 
the mornin' of the funeral two of the servant 
boys led the dogs down the road a bit, to wait 
till the funeral got that way, so that whin it 
came by they'd fall in with the procession behind 
the hearse. By an' by the funeral came along, 
an' just as soon as the hearse got near the dogs, 
they let up a howlin' like all the divils in hell 
were let loose among thim. They tore at the 
horses, barked around the hearse as if they were 
clane mad every dog o' thim. An' the servant 
boys an' the coachmin who got off the carriages, 
bate thim back with their whips, till the marks 
of the lashes were on their backs; but the dogs 
howled an' foamed, an' tore at the horses, till 
the poor beasts took fright an' galloped like mad 
down the road, with the dogs behind howlin' 

[198] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

an' barkin', an' the carriages after. The police 
of Athery heard o' the trouble, an' ran out with 
their guns to meet the funeral. They got between 
the dogs an' the hearse, an' fired a volley an' 
shot some o' thim. Thin the other dogs, whin 
they heard the noise o' the guns, jumped over the 
ditch an' ran across the field an' over Duggan's 
hill, an' were never seen again to this day, though 
ye can hear thim be night most any time howlin* 
around Crockett's house back at Bridgetown." 

"Faith, that's a strange story, Tade, an' I 
never heard it before," said Mick x\hern. 

"Yerra, I'm surprised. Sure I thought most 
everyone knew the story of Crockett's hounds," 
rejoined Tade. 

" 'Tis a bad thing to have anything to do with 
the priest, boys," mused John Conway, as he 
began to refill his pipe. 

"Faix 'tis, except to go to your duties an' 
be respectful," added Tom Sheehan. 

And then the whistle of the "Goods" train, 
bound for Limerick, screamed shrilly from down 
near Athery. 

"By gor, there's half -past tin!" broke in 
Jackeen Hogan. "Let us get inside, boys, an' 
wake the good man that's gone, God rest him!" 

They turned toward the house, out of which 
came the low murmur of many voices. Night 
had settled over the land. But through the dark 
one could see the flickering candles, with a cru- 
cifix between them, motionless kneeling figures, 
a dark shroud, and a white face. 

14 [199I 



MAD MATT. 

AT every season of the year, under torrid 
sun or drenching rain, "Mad Matt" Don- 
aghue was to be seen on the main-travelled roads 
about Athery, Ardee, and Knockfeen. And so 
familiar was his odd figure to all the people, 
young and old, for miles and miles around, that 
not a lone child on the road would think of running 
away at the sight of him. It might be midwinter, 
with the wind blowing a gale across the country, 
and pelting the rain before it : just the same. Mad 
Matt braved the wind and the wet, and appeared 
as indifferent to the elements as if he were caressed 
by the zephyrs of a summer sea. 

Perhaps he was sixty years of age, — certainly 
not more. His hair — which had never been cut, 
so far as anybody knew — was half gray and ex- 
tended midway down his back. About his loins 
were gathered two or three doubles of canvas, 
which were held together by a belt of black 
leather. He was hatless and shoeless, and you 
might as well fling feathers against the wind 
as give head or foot wear to Mad Matt. 

He walked on the right side of the road, his 
shoulders bent forward, his feet seeking the 

[ 200 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

smooth places where broken stones were not 
scattered. "You'll be there, an' they'll be there, 
an' we'll be all there by an' by," he said to 
himself betimes as he went along. This sentence 
was followed by mutterings for some ten minutes. 
Then out of the incoherency this thought stood 
apart: "If Nell was here she'd know, but Nell 
is gone like the rest o' thim." Again incoherency; 
then finally: "Wisha, God help us, an' 'twas 
a sore night for all of us the night they came! 
An' they're gone now, an' we'll never be the 
same agin." So all along the road, day after day 
these phrases were audible. Between them were 
the lapses of incoherent muttering. Perhaps if 
those lapses could be filled up, if thought could 
be brought out of the disconnected words one 
might find a story. 

There were certain families who always gave 
Matt shelter with the coming of night. When 
in the neighborhood of Knockfeen his haven of 
rest was the Condons "o' the Hill," so-called to 
distinguish them from several other families of 
the same name that lived in the neighborhood. 
He might happen in at five, six, seven, or eight 
o'clock. The hour made no difference; there 
was supper and a bed that night, and a breakfast 
before he left next morning. As he entered the 
yard one wild night, when the wind whisked 
around corners and the rain beat on the roofs 
of the houses, Mrs. Condon was hurrying from the 
dairy to the kitchen. She noticed Matt. 

"Wisha, Annie," she called in to her daughter, 

[201 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

who was sweeping back the ashes from before a 
blazing fire, — "wisha, Annie, here's that anashore 
of a Matt. Hurry, child, an' get hirn a cup o' 
hot milk an' some bread an' butter, an' whatever 
else you can find." 

Presently Matt was before the kitchen door, 
shaking the rain from his long hair. 

"Yerra, poor man, get inside out o' the rain 
an* the wind, or you'll get your death o' could." 

Matt leaned over, pushed back the bolt of the 
half-door, and in a moment was sitting on the 
"hob" beside the cheerful fire. As the blaze 
leaped up and down, one could watch him under 
the play of light. His thin beard, which probably 
never in long years had felt the pressure of a 
comb, was, for all that, remarkably regular. His 
face, brown from exposure, was long and thin, 
and free from even a single wrinkle. His eyes, 
neither wild nor staring, gave the eff"ect of gentle- 
ness and timidity to his expression. The height 
of his forehead was exaggerated by the long hair 
which was pushed back from it. Except for the 
occasional sentences and mutterings already men- 
tioned. Matt never spoke; and when in people's 
houses he refrained from even these. But he 
always understood when spoken to, and when 
advised to do anything not impossible or obviously 
foolish always obeyed. When Annie Condon 
said, "Now, Matt, take this hot milk and bread 
and butter and this piece of bacon," he took 
them, nodded his head in thanks and ate. When 
;. Condon said, a couple of hours later, "'Tis 

[ 202 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

ten o'clock, Matt, an' you must be sleepy an* 
tired; you'd better go to bed, me poor man," 
Matt climbed up to the loft, back of the kitchen, 
and was soon fast asleep. He was up in the gray 
of the morning, took a piece of bread and a cup 
of sweet milk from anybody who happened to 
be around, and set out again on his life wandering. 

Many tales were abroad to explain Matt's 
strange condition. Micky the Fenian said that 
in days gone by he stole an umbrella from the 
priest's side-car while the priest was giving the 
last Sacraments to a dying woman; and because 
the priest had to go home in the rain. Matt had 
to endure the wind and the wet with sparse 
clothing ever after. 

"That's a yarn, Micky," Tade Clancy objected; 
"because why, I'll tell you. The punishment 
is too big for the sin, so it is; an' God doesn't 
work that way." 

"Faix, if ye want to know the truth," said 
Johnny Mangan, "Matt Donaghue is mad because 
he married a Protestant from North Ireland in 
his young days, an' she coaxed his money away 
from him, an' thin left him without a hapurth 
in the world. Sure 'tis no wonder he's mad, 
boys!" 

"Yerra, what are ye talkin' about, Mangan? 
Sure the man was never married any time," 
protested Tade Clancy. "If ye want to know 
the truth, I'll tell ye." 

"By gor, that's no way to put by what honest 
min say, Tade Clancy." Johnny Mangan's 

[203 ] 



ROUND ABOUT ROME 

feelings were hurt or he pretended they were. 
"If ye want to know the story," Tade repeated, 
not heeding the interruption, "I'll tell ye. Mad 
Matt is a Wexford man, be all accounts. He 
lived in a farm out from the city of Wexford, 
with his two sisters. It was the time when the 
* White Boys' wint around the county in the 
night, batin' an' killin' people they had a grudge 
agin. For some reason or other, they got a grudge 
agin poor Matt, an' they wint ta his house one 
night an' rapped at the door. 'Who's that in 
God's name?' says Matt. — 'Grinds that are 
droppin' in to visit ye,' says they. — 'Frinds are 
always welcome to our house,' says Matt, openin' 
the door. The door was hardly open whin the 
divil a bit — Gud forgive me! — but six masked min 
broke down the half-door an' stood in the middle 
o' the kitchen. The two sisters started cry in' 
and screamin', an' ye never heard such a hulla- 
baloo in all yer life. They locked the two sisters 
in one o' the rooms, robbed the house, an' nearly 
bate the life out o' Matt before they left. The 
poor boy was found by the neighbors next mornin' 
lyin' on the floor, nearly half dead. An' while, 
after a few months, he recovered the health o' 
his body, he never recovered the health o' his 
mind. So he's Mad Matt to this day." 

"Wisha, glory to God, an' I wonder if that's 
true?" said Mikeen Ahern. 

"Yerra, do you suppose 'tis to make it up I 
would?" retorted Tade. 

"Faix, it may an' it may not," Mrs. Clancy 

[ 204 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

was pleased to remark in her practical way, as 
she added a couple of fresh sods of turf to the fire. 

With the lapse of years Matt grew weaker, 
and in a little while his figure was seen no more 
on the white, winding roads. Many and many 
a woman offered him a place of rest, now that his 
wanderings were over. 

"You will be no bother at all, poor man! An' 
you can have your bed up in the loft, an' a bit 
an' a sup whine ver you want it," said one good 
woman, the mother of twelve children. 

"Sure you can stay with us," another declared; 
"an' come an' go as you like." 

But Mad Matt shook his head slowly, and 
pointed his lean finger to an old hut, abandoned 
long since, a short distance away from Creela 
graveyard. 

"Yerra, is it loosin' your mind you are!" ex- 
claimed Mrs. Sheehan, who was standing by at 
the time. 

"Faix, it isn't; for he has lost it already," 
Mike Quinn's wife whispered. 

To the hut went Matt, and lived alone, with 
the green fields around him, and heaven above. 
The grass grew up to the door, and the smell 
of the hay was in the house all summer. The bees, 
that sucked the sweets from the flowering clover 
below the tall spears, charged the air with 
slumber and dreams. At his door sat Matt, 
watching the great crop rise and fall like the 
sea when the wind came with gentle cooling 
from the south or west. Many a bird rose and 

[205 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

hovered for a little over the nest where her young 
ones were songless in the soft grass; many a 
butterfly, with speckled wings, fluttered from 
flower to flower, gathering its toll. In the shady 
places of a shallow stream that flowed outside 
the hayfield, the cattle stood, their feet in the 
cool water, their heads under protecting branches. 
Upstream, where large stones were thrown to 
form a weir, the waters leaped and sang 
unceasingly. 

"You'll be there, an' they'll be there, an' 
we'll be all there by an' by," murmured Matt, 
as he sat before the door, watching the face of 
the country. Children came and brought him 
something to eat, or an extra blanket to cover 
him in the cool of the evening. Matt never spoke, 
but his eyes showed gratitude. 

Summer passed, and the leaves were changed 
to gold. Autumn passed, and the leaves were 
changed to brow^n. The blight of winter was on 
everything — grass, tree, shrub. A chill wind from 
the. North brought the frost of a January night 
when the stars shone near together in a cloudless 
sky. Matt sat at his door, watching the heavens, 
and perhaps listening to the songs which poets 
tell us are sung by the stars. Feeling the chill 
air herself, Mrs. Sheehan thought of the "poor 
anashore" in the hut, and, accompanied by her 
son John, took him a warm blanket. She found 
him sitting at the door, watching the heavens. 

"Here, Matt, go to bed now, and put this 
extra blanket over you." 

[206] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Matt's expression did not change. 

"Do you listen, poor man? Go to bed now, 
an' don't be sittin' out here in the could." 

She shook him gently by the shoulder. At 
her touch he fell over, face downward. "My 
God! John, lift him up! He's stunned with the 
could!" 

Mother and son lifted the light body back on 
the chair. The eyes were open and still watching 
the heavens. 

"O dear God, he's dead!" cried Mrs. Sheehan, 
as she touched the cold hand. 

The neighbors came, and the body was pre- 
pared and placed on the couch where Mad Matt 
used to sleep. Next day one of the Poor Law 
Guardians was in favor of having the dead man 
laid away in the paupers' graveyard up near 
Ardee. But the people of Knockfeen thought 
otherwise. 

"He was among us in life," spoke up Dan 
Sheehan, "an' we're goin' to have him among us 
in death." 

And the neighbors echoed: 

"That's talking, Dan!" 

So Mad Matt was laid away in Creela grave- 
yard, around which stretched the growing hayfields 
when the summer came back. 



[ 207 ] 



THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. 

CURRAGH schoolhouse stood on the side of 
the road, with a *'mortar-and-stone" wall 
surrounding it, to keep it sacred from contact 
with the working world. Inside the wall grew a 
well-trimmed hedge, which after some 5^ears con- 
cealed the masonry, that, to tell the truth was 
black from age and Irish rain. 

Of a summer morning it was a sight to make 
the heart in you glad to see the children from 
north, south, east and west, walking to this 
centre of knowledge to get what the old people 
called "a bit o' schoolin'." The little girls, v/ith 
their white bibs and calico dresses, and their 
hair held back by a blue band, looked askance 
at a stranger when he passed them by. The boys, 
with their caps and knickerbockers, sauntered 
along, som.e of them spinning tops, others com- 
mitting to memory a lesson in grammar or 
geography. 

James Sullivan was the *'masther" of Curragh 
school, with the title of "First Class." Just what 
were the prerogatives and privileges of "First 
Class" as against second or third the boys and 
girls did not pretend to know. They imderstood, 

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indeed, that first was better than second; but 
how much better— well, that belonged to the 
inspector. 

It was late July and the inspector was making 
his annual visit. He alv/ays came before the 
summer vacation; and after his visit was over, 
the days of rest began. Along the roads and 
across the flowering fields the children went 
earlier than usual, just to get into school and be 
settled before the great man arrived. The girls 
wore their best dresses, and the boys their Sunday 
suits. The master himself had on the black coat 
and the grey trousers which he never wore on 
ordinary schooldays. 

The children are coming in, with the flush 
of the morning on their faces and the dew of the 
fields on their boots. There is less of a buzz 
than usual; for they are hushed into silence by 
expectancy. Little Paddy Madigan, w^ho is the 
brightest boy in third class, has a throbbing pulse 
lest he fail to pass up into fourth; Nance O'Neill 
is in fourth, and disgrace would rest on her name 
if she did not rise with honor into first stage of 
fifth. Danny Donavan is at the outer end of the. 
seat. He is not very clever, finds it hard to learn, 
but he has gentle eyes and quiet manners; so 
everybody loves him, and hopes he will not be 
left behind. All are excited, anxious, hopeful. 

James Sullivan was a man of twenty-eight, 
unmarried and alone in the world. His father and 
mother were both under the grass of the bleak 
graveyard back at Kilcappa hill; and he, their 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

only child, was left lonesome and lonely, with 
only the memory of happier days. One does not 
wonder he loved the little boys and girls from 
the countryside around Curragh, whose young 
voices made music in his school all the long day. 
One does not wonder, either, that there was a 
weight in his heart that made his blood bound 
in his veins when he saw them pass out of his 
sight as the schoolday was over. Sorrow mellows 
men, makes them merciful, soft of speech, patient, 
and ready to hear a story of trouble or pain. 
Only success and visions of greatness lift the 
heads of men so high they can not see a tear 
in the eyes of the afflicted nor hear the cry of 
the lowly. 

Sullivan knew all his little flock of scholars, — 
their talents, their innocence, their simplicity, 
their eagerness to satisfy, their leaping hearts 
for the least service. No wonder that these Irish 
country boys and girls, who had heard of the 
flogging schoolmasters in other districts, loved 
this, man, who knew the power of sweetness and 
gentleness. Those hired slave-drivers, who felt 
that education must be beaten into children with 
a stick, had no conception of their divine mission — 
the opening of thought vistas to eager eyes. They 
had a mind to "salary" and the "results" after 
examinations. 

At last the black side-car and handsome horse 
of the inspector were seen coming down over 
the Pike Hill road. The driver was on one seat, 
the inspector on the other. You could hear your 

[210] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

heart beating if 3^ou listened, it was so still in 
the school. Then Mr. Sullivan, in the last few 
minutes that remained before the great m.an 
entered, walked to the front of the desks where 
the children were sitting, and simply said: 
"Children, you have studied hard, so do the 
best you can to-day. The examinations will 
be over about four o'clock. I want to see you 
all for a little while then, as this is the last day 
of school and vacation begins to-morrow." The 
children almost forgot to be afraid of the in- 
spector, so surprised were they at the teacher's 
request. Presently the inspector entered. All 
stood up as a token of respect, were immediately 
seated again, and the great battle for promotion 
was on. 

First comes the "infant class" in their ab-abs. 
Little Jimeen Sheehan spells h-o-u-s-e, and Maggie 
Noonan spells s-c-h-o-o-1, but Tommiy Duggan 
spells "road" r-o-d-e. Then he blushes, hesitates, 
and finally, as the inspector points his index 
finger at the next in the circle, shouts "r-o-a-d!" 
He has caught fleeing Opportunity by her single 
lock and is saved. Meantime boys and girls in 
the sixth class are working problems from blue 
cards which the inspector has brought along; 
those in the fifth are writing a letter to an im- 
aginary Aunt Elizabeth in Dublin, telling her 
about an imaginary bazaar in an imaginary place 
called Brexwell. The third and fourth classes are 
giving examples of penmanship in as finished 
a hand as their nerves will allow. Young Danny 

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ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Kennedy overloads his pen with ink, and begins 
to circle the curve of a beautiful C. After all, 
a pen is a pen, and long before the C is circled 
its lovely outlines are blurred with a black spot 
"as big as a ha'penny." Mollie Hogan, who sits 
next him, laughs stealthily at his misfortune, 
which makes Danny promise a measure of revenge, 
you may be sure. 

Then the first class undergoes its oral test, 
and the second and the third. Like a pyramid 
turned upside-down, the higher the class the longer 
it takes to circle its variety of subjects. Spelling 
and reading; spelling, reading, and arithmetic; 
spelling, reading, arithmetic, and geography; spell- 
ing, reading, arithmetic, geography, and grammar; 
spelling, reading, arithmetic, geography, grammar, 
and agriculture. And so on, bigger and bigger 
like the house that Jack built. 

As the day reaches far into the afternoon, 
those out on the field who were examined in the 
morning have grown weary of their play. The 
higher classes undergoing their oral tests are 
w^eary also, — weary of the long, anxious wait, 
of the monotonous hum of voices, of the endless 
changing and marching back and forth. 

At last the tests are over. The inspector, with 
Mr. Sullivan's assistance, gathers up his array 
of papers, records, cards, and what not. He 
locks them, away in his satchel, bids the Curragh 
schoolteacher a perfunctory good-bye, mounts his 
side-car, and soon you can hear the wheels rolling 
over the broken stones as his horse speeds along. 

[ 212 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Then the children, tired of the long day and 
anxious for the welcome sight of home, re-enter 
the school. The teacher stops a little rosy-faced 
chap of six and asks: 

"What's your name?" 

"Dan McCann, an' an Irishman," answers the 
little fellow, saluting. 

Then he asks a red-haired miss of seven: 

"And what's your name?" 

"Rosaleen, the Irish queen," she answers, 
with a courtesy. These are the catchwords the 
schoolteacher has taught them; and as he hears 
them now, somehow, instead of the smile with 
which he has been accustomed to greet these 
younger children, his face is serious. 

When they are all seated, he walks to the front 
of the desks where he stood at the beginning of 
the day. The children are quiet and anxious. 
They forget about home and vacation. The 
teacher surveys his scholars for a little, and 
then speaks softly, for his voice is heavy with 
feeling : 

"Children, I won't delay you long. I wouldn't 
keep you waiting at all only I am anxious to have 
these few minutes alone with you before you go 
home. Your examinations are over now, and the 
vacation is beginning. You have kept at your 
books this year — most of you have, — and I know 
you will be promoted to higher classes. There 
may be two or three failures, but that does not 
matter. We can not expect all to go up You 
will have a very happy vacation, I know. You 

[213] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

will be back at home and free. Do not play all 
the time, however; for as we vary our working 
time with play, so we must vary our playing 
time with work. Be good, just like all our simple 
people around, — not only now when you are 
young, but later on when you are older. Try always 
to remember your race, and to be proud of it and 
to do it honor. We come of kings and warriors 
and bards and orators and saints; hence the 
hearts in us should be warm to music and to 
battle and to prayer. Some of you will be going 
to America, maybe, later on. You may get rich 
and mighty, and you may have the world smiling 
at your feet some day. But you must never, 
never forget your Irish faith, your Irish love for 
this island home of ours, nor your love for your 
own people, no matter how poor. 

"I am taking so much time, children, because 
it will be long before I see you again, if ever." 
(Then the eyes of his child audience grew large 
with wonder.) "You have always been such 
good children — gentle, truthful, respectful, — that 
I feel lonesome to leave you, — just as if you 
were my very own. But, you see, all my people 
are away under the earth; and, as I want a change 
in order to see the world and earn a better living, 
I have made up my mind to go to America this 
summer — " 

"Yes, but you will be back in August, sir!" 
interrupted Danny Hogan, forgetting his manners 
in his fright over the terrible news. 

"No, not in August — not in August," echoed 
the teacher, sadly. [ 214 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

Nothing quickens tears in the eyes of a good 
man Hke tears in the eyes of a child. So when 
Kitty Shanahan and Maura Sheedy and Jimeen 
Hogan and Paddy Clancy cried silently for the 
going of this kindly, humane teacher, and when 
so many of big as well as little without distinction 
were caught by the contagion, 'tis small wonder 
the heart of this strong man gave way and that 
his eyes were glistening with tears. After all, 
child love is the least selfish. So little fills the 
heart of a child, yet it gives back so much in 
return! Sullivan knew this. He knew that all 
he had ever given those friends of his was a kind 
word here and there, — a little of the honey of 
encouragement. Yet how large a love they were 
giving back to him! 

"And now, children," he finished with a heavy 
voice, "May God be good to you and to this 
dear island of ours! And may He be kind and 
merciful to me when I am away among strangers 
in a lonely land! Pray for me, who will not see 
you again as little ones with your blue Irish eyes 
and with your true Irish hearts. God bless you! — 
God bless you! Good-bye, Maura; and you, 
Mollie and Jimeen and Ted; and you, little 
Maurice and Rosaleen; and you, Jim." 

So to each one passing out he gave his strong 
hand that circled the child hand in its warm 
clasp. Then came the baby of the school, Mollie 
Anne. Into his arms he took the little one, 
stroked, with a hand that was never lifted but 
in love, the black hair, and whispered in a broken 

IS . [215] ^ 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

voice: "Good-b3^e, good-bye, Mollie Anne! You're 
the best baby girl in all Ireland." The little head 
nodded wearily, for the day had been long and 
sleepless. Then he touched the little white fore- 
head with his lips, and presently she joined the 
other children. 

For a long time he looked from the school 
door at the group that broke away into little 
streams and went slowly homeward to the north, 
south, east, and west. He had the mood that 
weights the heart with feeling, and then finds its 
escape in song. The years of quiet were ended; 
the lowly lives of little children that flooded his 
darkest days with stray sunlight and made song 
that could be heard beneath the rolling of winds — 
they were all gone, gone out of his life. The passion 
had caught him. The cry of the West to brave 
the ocean and find possessions in the New World 
had lured him like a siren. The longing for a 
wonder world, for romance, for daring and doing, 
had beaten at the door of his gentle soul. Yes, 
he must go. The eager, impulsive, imaginative, 
carefree Celt has caught the fever. Sorry or not, 
he must go. 

And the children, far down the fields or away 
on the white road, move slowly; for their hearts 
feel the pain of the parting. What to them is 
vacation now, when their hero is leaving! What 
to them freedom from books when the kindest 
face they have ever known will not smile them 
a welcome when they return in the waning 
summer! The smoke from the chimneys of their 

[216] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

homes, which they see rising far down the valley, 
would be a sign of welcome in other years: now 
it is the form of one they love fading away. James 
Sullivan from the door sees the last of them 
passing over the hill or turning the bend of the 
road. He thinks they look back to wave him 
adieu, and he waves in return. 

"The sweetest faces and the whitest souls that 
God ever blessed the world with are you! You 
will grow tall and fair, and the land that should 
be yours belongs to a stranger, and your birthright 
is stolen and your riches are wasted, while you 
are left desolate. God help me! The voice is 
calling me, and I am following, — I who have been 
so happy here, in sun and rain, in Autumn and 
Spring! That's the last of them. They have 
turned the road bend; they have gone over the 
hill. And I am leaving them and following the 
voice, with my face to the West." 



[217] 



THE ATHERY MEETING. 

THE Athery meeting* had been placarded for 
weeks before. You read of it at the chapel 
gates, on the telegraph poles along the roads, 
outside the post office at Cronin's mill, at 
Madigan's forge; and for three weeks ahead 
Jacky the Bellman had been announcing it at 
all the fairs. Hence the event took on a measure 
of importance, surpassing anything of a like 
character for years before. 

In Ireland, they say that it always rains at 
the meeting. But never a drop fell on Athery 
that day, nor for two days before, nor for two 
after. There were only a few white clouds all 
over the face of the heavens; a soft breeze blew 
in from the Shannon and up the Deel, which 
tempered the heat of the July sun. Insects hummed 
in drowsy fashion out among the flowering weeds 



* In Ireland the word "meeting" implies an assem- 
blage of people that gather for some patriotic purpose. 
First, there is usually a procession or parade, followed 
by considerable oratory from Members of Parliament of 
more or less prominence, depending on the importance of 
the occasion. Sometimes an attorney or a priest adds 
his voice to sway the multitude. 

[218] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

that grew among the rushes where the soil was 
black and moist. 

The procession formed back at the chapel 
gates and began to march shortly after last Mass. 
Every parish for miles around was represented 
by a banner and a number of marching men. 
The banners were of various designs and re- 
splendent with manifold inscriptions. Generally 
there were two upright poles surmounted by a 
transverse bar, from which was suspended the 
banner proper. The inscriptions v/ere done in 
gold on a background of green. As the men 
marched, holding the poles, you could get the gist 
of the sentiment. Shanagolden banner bore the 
slogan, "The Land for the People"; Creela pro- 
claimed the truth, "For God and Country"; 
Nenagh, "God Save Ireland"; Ballydee, "Ireland 
is Worth Dying For." Knockfeen was glorified 
by a demand expressed in numbers: 

We want the land that bore us, 
Which our Fathers had before us; 

Then together stand 

For our native land, 
With heaven shining o'er us. 

And so they marched, the men of Ardee with 
the Ardee hurling club, wearing green jerseys 
and caps, and each player bearing his hurly on 
his shoulder. The Garryown brass band was 
moving in single footfall, playing "O'Donnell 
Aboo." Then the blood surged through your 
veins and you longed for a gun. The Kilmeedy 
men came, three hundred strong; tall, large- 

[219] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

boned men they were, who looked ahead Hke 
soldiers. The fife-and-drum band, made up of 
schoolboys of the "Monks' School" at Adare, 
whistled by to the tune of "God Save Ireland," 
and received an ovation. Old and New Kildimo, 
always factious in the past, joined hands in love 
on the great day, and carried a sign bearing the 
inscription "United we Stand." 

And so they marched on and on, — the men 
from the West who labored in the bog fields, the 
men from the South who labored at the hay, the 
men from the East who kept the stock and the 
dairies, the men from the North who tilled the 
land; old men with the fire of the long-ago still 
leaping up in their eyes, as the music stirred the 
strings of memory; middle-aged men, with wives 
and big families left behind in some quiet country 
home. Their faces were tanned by the sun and 
their hands rough from the plow and the spade 
and the scythe. But they were brave men, not 
afraid of danger with a spice of romance to it; 
nor fearful of war. The young men moved along, 
conscious that the eyes of many were upon them, 
and proud of their quick, firm steps hitting the 
road at the same instant. They might be 
descendants of the Gallowglasses, for all one 
knew. And if you stood there and watched them, 
blue-eyed and dark-haired like the Milesians 
who sailed down the Atlantic in search of Innis- 
fail, you would know that God never meant they 
should be serfs. 

V/endell Phillips is reported to have said on 

[ 220 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

one occasion, before a Toronto audience of Orange- 
men, that the Union Jack is the only flag that 
never waved above a slave. If one quibbles 
about a term, it is possible the statement is 
sufficiently true to work up a climax in order to 
win the applause of Toronto Orangemen. But in 
spirit and truth it is as false as many another 
large statement that has worked its way into the 
minds of men. Landlordism and pauperism and 
privation of education that for so long was 
England's policy in handling the Irish Question 
created a slavery in fact, if not in name. And 
even on that Sunday, in the late Eighties, one 
felt the marching men of every age and condition 
were, somehow, the slaves of a blundering govern- 
ment, that could not or would not see the light 
even when the whole world cried out, *'Lo, it 
is here!" 

On a large field outside the town, the marching 
men came to a halt. A platform was constructed 
some seventy yards in from the road, in front 
of which the people gathered to hear the orators 
who had come from near and far. As each 
division entered, those who bore the banner made 
it secure to the side of the platform, where it 
waved in the soft summer breeze. 

One does not remember, over the reach of 
years, the political sapience that enlightened the 
listening throngs that day. The eloquent appeals 
that brought back the "hear, hear!" and "loud 
and prolonged cheering," and the "great applause," 
no longer stand large and apart above the un- 

[221] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

eventful things of the past. But Micky the 
Fenian was there, and frequently interrupted 
the Member of Parliament from County Wexford. 
Once, however, when that worthy man declared, 
uplifting his right hand, "Fellow-countrymen, our 
faces are set in the right direction," Micky inter- 
rupted, "By gor, yours isn't, anyhow, or I'd hear 
what you're sayin' better!" This seemed a dis- 
courtesy in the opinion of those immediate to 
Micky; hence he was greeted with reminders like, 
"Whist!" — "Yerra, can't you keep your tongue 
quiet a while, anyhow?" All which had a chasten- 
ing effect on Micky, you may be sure; for, like 
men in general, when his wit met with disapproval 
it cooled quickly. 

As the shadows of the afternoon lengthened, 
the crowd grew weary of standing and listening. 
After all, many of those who came had a long 
distance to travel before they would reach home. 
The last speaker but one had finished, and a 
relieving cheer rent the heavens. The final speaker 
was not formally announced, hence the people 
were curious. They were told he would be brief, 
and you may be sure this caused a great uplifting 
of hearts. 

"Yerra, who is it?" asked Jim Donnelly of 
Johnny Mangan, who stood near. 

"You tell me an' I'll tell you, — without giving 
you a short answer," Johnny replied, straining his 
neck to see over the shoulder of the man before 
him. 

Then he appeared, — white-haired and smooth- 

[ 222 ] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

faced, holding his tall hat in his left hand, a 
patriot if ever there was one — the gentle Father 
Tracey himself. ' ' Father Tracey ! Father Tracey ! ' ' 
shouted some one. Then, to use an elaborate 
Homeric figure, even as a west wind gathers up 
one wave that quickens all the sea till billows 
break to landward, so thousands of tongues took 
up the name so well known, so well loved and 
made of it a battle cry, a song, a phrase to conjure 
by. What now were Members of Parliament 
from Dublin, Wexford, and Kilkenny! What 
were * ' anashoreens ' ' of barristers who wore wigs in 
the court-rooms ! What were Poor Law Guardians, 
with their weekly Unions up at Ardee or back 
at Newcastle! What were solicitors, with their 
smart talk about being "amenable to the law" 
for this or for that! What were they all, with 
their fine dress and smart talk, beside this white- 
haired, smooth-faced man, anointed of God, with 
the glory of seventy years mounting fast upon 
him! He stood still and silent while the thousands 
cheered and cheered, and waved hats, handker- 
chiefs, and flags, till from the hills west of the Deel 
River over and over again came back the echoes. 
Then Father Tracey reached out his hand, palm 
down, over the crowd; and in a little while 
silence settled, and faces were lifted in listening 
attitude. 

"My dear people," the priest began very 
quietly and without any flourish, "the good men 
who have charge of this meeting asked me to say 

[223] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

a word to you before you go home. I know you'll 
be glad to go when I'm finished." 

A ripple of laughter quickened here, and it 
reached to every face when leather Tracey added: 

"For up at Knockfeen they sometimes go 
before I'm through at all. You have noticed there 
are no policemen or soldiers here to-day [great 
cheering] excepting myself [a veritable storm]. 
It is said by our enemies that we are a lawless 
people, an intemperate people. But there has 
been no fight here to-day. [The priest paused 
and looked around.] And I do not see a single 
drunken man. That makes the heart in me glad, 
and gladdens the heart of any man who loves 
Ireland. My people — for you are all mine in a 
sense, — I love you when you are sober, and I 
weep for you when you are not. Thank God, 
Ireland to-day is a sober Ireland; and — for I 
see the signs everywhere — to-morrow, with the 
guidance of His blessed light, Ireland will be a 
free Ireland. My people, the day is coming to 
an. end. The sun is going down in the West, and 
soon the stars will appear in the sky. Many of 
you have come from a distance and have a long 
journey before you. Go home sober, each and 
all of you, to your wives and children that wait 
for you at the half-door, to see if you are coming 
with a high head and a steady step through the 
falling night. They'll see you straight and strong 
and sober, won't they?" 

"They will, your Reverence, — they will! [Great 
cheering.]" 

[ 224] 



ROUND ABOUT HOME 

"Thank you! God bless you, and take you 
safe home!" 

The ending was so sweet, so solemn, so gentle, 
the people paid the tribute of breathless silence. 
Then the men on the stand walked down the 
steps and out to the road. Those who had charge 
of the banners took them down, folded them and 
bore them away. The bands played "Garryown" 
and "Wearin' o' the Green" and "God Save 
Ireland," while those about the stand broke and 
parted. Soon the vast field was deserted, and 
only the trampled grass and the empty stand, 
and the green bunting that fluttered in the wind 
of the waning day, told the story of the cheering 
thousands. 

Now the people have eaten at the homes of 
friends or at some restaurant, or have stilled the 
pangs of hunger with the lunches they have 
brought. They are going through the quiet 
evening to their homes, — the men from the West 
who labor in the bog fields, the men from the 
South who labor at the hay, the men from the 
East who keep the stock and the dairies, the men 
from the North who till the land. They are 
sober and thoughtful, their eyes straight ahead. 
In their quick Celtic fancies they see young wives 
and children waiting to hear the news of the 
meeting " ; in their memories they hear a voice 
that is low and sweet — "Thank you! God bless 
you, and take you safe home!" 

[ 225 ] 



THE AFTER YEARS. 

^AWN breaking on Queenstov/n harbor. Four 
Irish girls, come home from America to spend 
Christmas in the old land, are wiping the tears 
away at the sight of the familiar city spread out 
along the hill. The paperman comes up with the 
Cork Examiner, and has no change for a sixpence. 
Sixpence, a mere trifle, — what is change to you? 
Still it makes you moralize, if you are of the 
land. You say to yourself: Many a tourist thinks 
that the paperman v/ith his mean whine about 
no change, and the lacewoman with her run of 
talk that tires, and the jarvey with his hand 
always reaching out, are typical of the race: 
that these express the hospitality and the warm.th 
and the heart of the people. But of course 'tis 
otherwise; for the paperman and the lacev/oman 
and the jarvey are mean money-getters as foreign 
to Ireland as is the travelling Jew or gypsy. 
But how can the hurrying tourist know, who sees 
all Ireland from one peep at Queenstown or 
Dublin? 

On the way to Cork there is a lad of fifteen in 
the train with his strap full of books. He is 
smooth-faced, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and probably 

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will hold up his end of a conversation. He talks 
very well, you find; he is going to a college in 
Cork; studies Latin, trigonometry, Irish history, 
Roman history, and so on. You bid him good-bye 
at Cork station, and the train passes out near 
the neighborhood of Blarney Castle. Blarney 
has won a certain notoriety beyond other Irish 
antiquities; but there are a dozen or so castles 
vastly more interesting, more crowded with 
memories of daring deeds than this popular pile 
out from the city on the Lee. On either side 
along the way are prosperous-looking towns, and 
around them rich grazing lands, on which fat 
cattle are browsing in shady places. 

Down at Limerick Junction a train is waiting 
for your train to pull out. During the wait one 
porter calls out, "Tickets!" and another follows 
and punches holes in them. An old woman 
standing on the platform asks in a high pitch: 

"Porther, is that other thrain for Caherfin?" 

"Yerra, woman, can't you see I'm in a hurry?" 
responds the "porther," ceasing to punch. 

"Faix, thin, you might answer a civil question 
with a civil answer, at any rate." 

"Don't I tell you I'm in a hurry, woman, to 
let the thrain go?" The porter, however, doesn't 
seem to be especially hurried. 

"Well, I want to go to Caherfin." 

"Yerra, go! I'm not houldin' you." 

"Well, but where is the thrain?" 

"There it is, over there." 

"Will I w^alk into it now or will I wait?" 

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"Well, if you walk into it now, it won't go 
away without you, at any rate." 

By this time everybody is convulsed with 
laughter over the ridiculous situation in which 
the porter who clamors about his time has still 
so much of it to waste. 

"Wisha, the divil carry you an' your ould 
guff!" the old woman calls after him as the 
train pulls out. 

Then on to the city of Limerick, which the 
Danes held once and where Danish names still 
survive; where William of Orange met his 
repulses, and where the name of Sarsfield shines 
with special brilliance. These are all dead glories, 
however, that only quicken regrets for what might 
have been. One likes to dream when the dream 
does not vanish with a sharp pain. And whoever 
dreams of historic Ireland as distinct from Ireland 
of the hearth and the people, must feel conscious 
at every turn that everything might have been 
different if something had not happened. But 
the something always happened, and therefore 
the sad sequel. 

If Brian of the Tribute had not been killed by 
his enemies on the night after the battle of Clontarf , 
a settled government might have followed, and 
who knows but Irish rulers might still be ruling 
a free land from the historic fortress of Kincora? 
If jealousy and wounded pride had not poisoned 
the red blood of Dermott MacMurrogh till he 
became a black traitor, there would not have 
been any Norman invasion, perhaps; and if 

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before the invading hosts had become a dark 
shadow on the landscape, the native chiefs could 
have presented an unbroken front — instead of 
spending their strength on one another, — there 
might have been no Norman Castle, no English 
pale. If spies had not tracked the m.en of Ninety- 
Eight, and if the leaders had not been arrested, 
and if Dublin had not been under martial law, 
things might have been so different. If Emmet's 
dream had come true, he might even now be 
honored by another title than that of martyr; 
and if Parnell, that master of strategy in the 
war of peace, had not slipped when the day was 
almost Vvon, the nineteenth century in the history 
of Ireland need not, very possibly, have been 
shelved away with the might-have-been centuries 
of the past. And one wonders if, even now, when 
the dawn is so red with promise, something may 
not happen to turn the face of Mother Erin back 
to the old days, dark as night and cheerless as 
death. One hopes not; but disappointment in 
the fruition of the hope for so long, quickens the 
doubt. 

.Athery is the same dreaming town into which 
the turf and the seaweed come with the early 
morning or at midda}^ or in the still evening. 
The abbey is on the hill, and from one of its narrow 
windows you can follow with your eye the river 
that widens until its waters are lost in the historic 
Shannon that comes from afar. Slantwise, on 
the other side, is the ''Hill o' Dreams"; but the 
cottage below it is there no longer. Where it 

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stood a tree nods in the soft wind. One wonders 
where is Tim Hogan. It is better not to ask; 
for the ans^ver will surely come like an echo: 
"He is dead and gone." And his little girl of 
dream.s? Perhaps in America; if so, her dreams 
are no more. Let us not ask; for surely this is 
an instance of "ignorance is bliss." The blind 
man's grave has its cross and its inscription, — 
his modest hold on immortality. 

The day is v/aning and the children are passing 
down the street on their way from school. The 
boys still carr}^ their books in a strap, and the 
girls carry the lunch in a bag or a basket. Upon 
the bridge they stand for a little to watch the 
tide steal in. The breath of the sea comes and 
is sweet to their sense. Many chatter about the 
boat that belongs to the Macks, and carries 
more turf than any two others; or about Jimeen 
Connell's "cot" that ran aground ere yesterday. 
Some are silent and with wide eyes watch the 
gulls, the ships of the air, sailing far out. The 
little village is, in essentials, unchanged and 
unchanging. Better houses to live in, more edu- 
cation, more of the comforts and refinements of 
life, — yes, by all means. But the religion of the 
race, and its spirit of reverence, and its love for 
the supernatural, and its wit and quick fancy 
and its sympathy, and its w4de range of senti- 
ment, — these must endure, else the race, as we 
know it, passes out. 

You drive along the white road from Athery 
to Ardee, and the endless procession still moves 

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on. But the feet of some you have known who 
walked over it many and many the time are 
laid away in dust and will never walk over it 
again. You miss them and the familiar "God 
bless you!" Then you drift into dreamland, and 
forget the jarvey and his white pony, and the 
houses set in among the fields on either side of 
you. You think of old Micky the Fenian and his 
bad hump and his good e3^e and his hasty temper 
and his terrible tales. You think of fun and 
laughter, and wit and repartee. Then Micky 
vanishes, and Dan Madigan's life and its sudden 
ending pass before you. You wonder if Kathleen 
O'Donnell is still at the Good Shepherd convent. 
But 3^ou do not ask, lest the echo come: "She 
is dead and gone." Maty Connelly? Yes, you 
remember of her going. The echo came to you 
somehow, somewhere. Then young Danny O'Neill, 
now asleep under the high heavens of far-away 
Texas, glides past you and vanishes. His gentle 
sister, secluded with silence and eternity in the 
cloister, floats before you, too. You are going to 
ask how she is bearing the sorrow of her brother's 
going, but you fear the echo may return, "Dead 
and gone!" To the south are the crossroads, 
and you notice the road running east and west. 
To the east is the ston}^ land where the sheep 
and goats are feeding as of old; to the wxst, the 
Furness estate and the interlocking trees and 
the "Bridge o' the Ghosts." 

Presently you come back to life with a jerk: 
the jarvey reins his horse suddenly before the gate 

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of Knockfeen chapel, where you told him to 
drive. You put away your dream for the moment 
and enter the chapel yard through the iron gate. 
There is a mellow setting sun and a cooling wind. 
The grass is soft over Father Tracey's grave. 
The place is very quiet, symbolic of the life of 
the man. One looks for the familiar figure as if 
he must always be; but the familiar figure comes 
no more. Yes, it is sweet for him to be home 
with God. The little chapel is quiet within. The 
red light keeps vigil and an old lady far back 
in one of the side aisles keeps vigil also. The 
heart is quickened to prayer there. It is so still 
one can hear the whisper of God. Pealing bells, 
throbbing organs, the roll of voices, ministers 
and splendor of vestments, and the infinite detail 
of ceremonial, are a tribute to the King. Let 
the tribute be sent up again and again. Yet 
there is a joy in hearing whispers in the silence. 
Once an old Irishwoman said, when her married 
daughters took her to a Pontifical High Mass 
in one of our large American cities: '*I like the 
grand music an' the bishop an' all the priests. 
But over in Ireland we have a Low Mass, an' 
'tis quiet like; an' you can say your prayers 
betther, an' you can hear what God says; for 
there's no organ an' no singin' to drown out His 
voice." 

You spend your time in the haunts you know 
and love; and each haunt quickens a memory 
of a joy or a sorrow, or a mem^ory in which both 
commingle. When at last the time comes to 

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bid them good-bye, you will bear away with you 
the conviction, heretofore mentioned, that Ireland 
does not change. The old castles with their narrow 
windows, the abbeys to which the ivy clings 
tenaciously, still stand and point to the past. 
The little towns, their houses roofed with 
slate or thatch, do not often grow larger. The 
old people die out with their hands clinging fast 
to the gate of heaven, while the young grow up 
and follow in their ways. 

Many who talk of an ** awakening" mean not 
merely the dawn of industry and a wider edu- 
cation and land-ownership and prosperity: more 
often they mean the dawn of revolt against the 
old ideals, against the old faith, against the 
old morality, against the old enduring patience 
and the old reverence. The true dawn is breaking 
even now. It needs no seer to tell that the long 
night of landlordism is past, that the land of 
Ireland is fast coming to its rightful owners. Nor 
does it need a seer to tell you that Ireland's 
national school system does not suffer by com- 
parison with the public school system of the 
United States; and when the Irish Catholic 
University has grown richer and riper, the day 
of the Trinity College man, with his English 
ideas and his Tory point of view, will pass away. 

May this true dawn come sure and swift! The 
world will welcome it. But no real lover of Ireland 
and her history and her purposes will welcome 
the other dawn with eager eyes. Much as one's 
heart aches for the true dawn, any one who 

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loves Ireland deeply and tenderly will pray that 
the east may never be red with the streaks of a 
new day, if the clouds of doubt and infidelity 
hide the dear, familiar sky of the Ireland we 
know. 



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